


The Weight of Living

by Nosow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Seriously guys SLOW BURN, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 82,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nosow/pseuds/Nosow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Sansa Stark is taken from the Vale by a Clegane - but not the one she expected. Meanwhile Sandor, who has been living as peacefully as a man like himself can on the Quiet Isle, receives news of the Little Bird's capture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cersei I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! So this is my first time writing a fic. The idea came to me while reading various SanSan fics, and I couldn't resist. A few events have been changed to fit the story - mainly Gregor not dying by Oberyn's poison, but a few other things may be different later down the line, such as the fate of Winterfell.
> 
> This will be a bit angsty in the beginning, with some tough scenes. I'll be sure to include warnings before chapters for any particularly bad stuff.
> 
> Also, I feel the need to include here in the beginning that **this is a slow burn**. I am trying to make things canon and believeable, and my versions of Sansa and Sandor leaping right into smut wouldn't make much sense. There will be smut later, I promise, but if you're not into sticking it out through character development, this is your warning. 
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy! I'll update as frequently as a college student working part time can. ;)

It was all too fitting, really, that the news of Littlefinger’s impeccably mannered bastard daughter had arrived at nearly the same time as Gregor Clegane. While Cersei had been livid at first to learn that Baelish had hidden the traitorous bitch who’d stolen her beloved son from her, she’d refrained from taking immediate action. For months Cersei had simmered and stewed over Sansa’s escape, wondering how she had done it, how she had disappeared under her very nose. And now that she knew, it was almost amusing how obvious it should have been. Littlefinger had always desired the little dove, after all; no doubt he was having his way with her at that very moment, lewdly calling out Sansa’s mother’s name. 

The thought makes Cersei smirk behind her goblet of Dornish red. She is seated in her solar, gazing idly out towards her balcony as she muses over her thoughts. As much as the thought of Sansa suffering Littlefinger’s _little finger_ pleases her, it is not enough. The ungrateful child had murdered her Joffrey, after all, and for that Cersei will not stop until she’s seen Sansa suffer greatly.

Which was why she’d called for the Mountain. 

He’d been away for some time, recovering from his battle with Oberyn Martell, but at last he seemed to have returned to his usual prowess – if the rumors of his resumed raping and pillaging with his men were true, of course. And now that her father was dead, there was no one to stop Cersei from commanding that the Mountain rape and pillage at _her_ command. 

By the time the heavy knock sounded at her chamber door, she’d been anticipating it for so long that she immediately calls, “Enter.” There was the creaking of hinges, the sound of large boots thumping against the floor, and then silence. She does not look up as she gestures to the chair across from her with a wave of her pale hand, and she hears the door close after a moment. The hulking form of Gregor Clegane comes into view, and the chair gives a groan of protest as he lowers himself into it. Finally Cersei turns to face him, lowering her goblet, her emerald eyes gleaming as she regards the massive man before her.

His gray eyes are like steel as they watch her in turn; he does not speak, awaiting her instruction, for he undoubtedly knows that there is a reason the Queen Regent has called him. 

“It is a pleasure to see you looking so well, Ser Clegane,” Cersei muses at last, swirling her wine in her goblet. He inclines his dark head in acknowledgement of her words, but still he does not speak. She continues. “And even more of a pleasure to see that you have returned to King’s Landing. Not a moment too soon; I have a task for you.”

At last he speaks. His voice is deep and grating, like two boulders grinding together, and yet somehow cold. “Whatever my Queen commands of me, it will be done.”

Cersei’s lips curl into a smile. The sunlight streams through from outside, illuminating her golden tresses so that they glisten and shine like armor as she leans towards him. “I received news today that the traitor and Kingslayer Sansa Stark is hiding in the Vale with Petyr Baelish. I’d like to retrieve her.”

“And what do you want me to do with Baelish?” He asks.

“Kill him.” The words drip from her tongue like honey, her eyes shining with cruel delight. “He has labeled himself a traitor as well by harboring the woman who killed your King and my son. I doubt that my monster of a brother has taken shelter in the Vale, but if he has been so stupid as to have, bring him to me.” 

“And the Stark bitch? I’m to bring her here?”

“Oh, no.” Cersei stands from her chair, goblet in hand as she glides over to the doors leading to the balcony, the skirts of her crimson gown trailing behind her. She does not look at him when she continues, but the malice is clear enough in her tone. She wants the Stark girl to suffer as much as possible, and who better than the Mountain to achieve this? “She is no use to me now; not when the Boltons control the North, and the remainder of the Stark children are dead. Take her to your Keep. Wed her, if you wish. And treat her as well as you have treated your other wives.”

Behind her, Gregor laughs.


	2. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is rescued from one captor - only to find herself in the hands of another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter contains a bit of violence, though it is nothing particularly gory or over the top!

Sansa Stark feels like a complete and utter fool. 

Had she learned nothing from her time spent in the Vale, masquerading as Petyr’s bastard daughter? He’d always said that she had the potential to be cunning and intelligent, but he would be ashamed if he could see her now.

 _But he can’t,_ she reminds herself, because Petyr is dead.

The Mountain’s men are boisterous as they spirit her away from the Vale after their flight from the Gates of the Moon. She is mounted upon a gentle palfrey stolen from the stables, her hands tied together in front of her, with her mare tied to the Mountain’s own massive horse. All around her are his men, shouting and cooing at her lewdly, their horses snorting and stomping their feet restlessly. And though Sansa wants to cry, she will not give them the satisfaction. Her little chin is tilted upwards, Tully-blue eyes cold, and she does not react to any of their teasing and prodding. Outside, her face is a perfect mask of cool disdain. Inside, she suffers.

She’d been so excited to travel to the Gates of the Moon for the tourney for the Brotherhood of Winged Knights. She’d also been proud that Petyr had taken so fondly to her suggestion when she brought the matter before him; and little Sweetrobin was so pleased, ecstatic when he’d heard that he would receive his own form of the Kingsguard. Though Sansa had long ago learned that noble knights were a thing of child’s dreams, it did not mean that she could not long to see the tourney. She’d always quite enjoyed the jousting, though the melee was a bit violent for her tastes. Randa, on the other hand, was overjoyed about every aspect of the tourney that her father was to help host. The entire way to the Gates of the Moon, she’d ridden alongside Sansa, chattering away about the _fine_ men in armor they might get to see – including Harry the Heir, Sansa’s betrothed. 

Then, she’d been Alayne Stone, with no obligations to behave like a highborn lady. She’d whispered and giggled beneath her breath with Randa as she had done many times, exchanging gossip and pillow talk. Randa had taught her more about the ways of coupling that even Petyr had – though _that_ was a thought she did not wish to revisit.

The night before the tourney, a familiar maid had crept into the chambers Sansa had been given at the hour of the wolf, startling her. For a moment Sansa had reached for the dagger she kept beneath her pillow, even in a room that was not her own - _especially_ in a room that was not her own – but then the girl had dipped into a hurried curtsy, squeaking an apology, and Sansa had relaxed. Her comfort was short-lived, however, when the maid whispered that a man had snuck into the Gates of the Moon with the other guests to retrieve Sansa – a man who went by the name of Clegane.

Her breath had caught in her throat at that, her hands beginning to shake. She’d frozen and certainly had worried the maid, but she could not help it. _Clegane._ A towering form, armor glittering, grey eyes that flashed with secrets that had confused a young Sansa. The flicker of emerald flames, the screams of burning men, a blade at her throat. A song, the feeling of tears upon her skin, a retreating form with only a charred cloak left behind which she still clutched to her breast when she woke panting from nightmares. 

The Hound. Sandor.

He had come for her.

She had been devastated when she’d learned of his death, confused when she’d heard of his actions in the Saltpans, though she had never _truly_ believed it had been him. He had been harsh and intimidating, but he had protected her, in his own way, and she could not believe that he would rape children and burn homes. And a part of her had rebelled against the news of his demise, had whispered that it could not possibly be true…though another part of her had cursed herself for a child.

But he was alive, had come for her, like she’d always hoped he would. And in her desire to believe that he would spirit her away like she’d wanted, she did not stop to think. She had become a careless child again, packing her things swiftly with the help of the maid, tucking the charred ivory cloak into her bags along with the remains of her dinner from earlier. It would have to do, for now.

The maid had lead her through dark, unfamiliar corridors, until they had reached the kitchens to slip through the servant’s doors. Sansa had held her breath the entire time, certain that at any moment Petyr would be waiting for her around a corner, smirking in that insufferable way of his when he'd outsmarted someone as he locked her away in her rooms. But it never happened.

It was almost unnerving, she realized as they slipped across the grounds, that no one saw them. Even as they approached the Gates, no alarm was raised, and that was when Sansa felt her skin crawl. Her eyes narrowed as she stared towards the guard house, seeing two men propped against the wall unmoving. She knew, without needing to look closer, that they had been slain. The Gates were open just a fraction, and she and the maid slipped underneath them. Something still seemed off to her, but she’d been so foolish, assuring herself that all would be well when she saw Sandor again.

They veered off the path into the woods, the girl leading Sansa towards the distant sound of stomping hooves and murmuring voices. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but as Sansa stepped into a clearing, her heart leapt as she noticed a towering shape amidst a group of men. _Sandor._

But…no. The man was just a fraction _too_ big, and she’d halted, but it was too late. The men surrounded her, and the large man stepped forward from the shadows. Sansa’s heart plummeted like a stone, and she took a single step backwards as Gregor Clegane grinned at her. 

Behind him was a burly man with a sobbing girl of no more than ten clutched in his arms, his meaty palm slapped over her mouth.

“I brought the girl like you asked, m’lord,” the maid who had betrayed Sansa said. Her voice quivered and shook as she extended her palms to Gregor, as if asking for mercy. Stupid girl. “Please. Let me take my sister back now. I won’t say a word, m’lord, I swear it, just let her go like you promised.”

The men chortled, and the dread churning within Sansa intensified. They reminded her of a pack of starving wolves as they pressed closer, and she knew in that moment that nothing would ever be right again.

“Suppose I did promise,” Gregor said with a tilt of his massive head. He gestured to the man holding the young girl, who grinned and made as if to push her forward. The maid sobbed in relief, reaching, but at the last moment the beefy man yanked the girl back. There was a flash of steel and a spray of blood that splattered across Sansa’s skirts. She gasped and reeled back as the maid cried out in anguish, the body of her sister colliding with the forest floor. 

“Go on, girl,” Gregor growled as his men howled their pleasure at the bloodshed. “Run back to your chambers. And thank you.”

For a moment Sansa thought that the girl would not go, but then she rose, legs trembling, and her sobbing grew fainter as she scrambled back towards the path.

“That was foolish.” It was her own voice that had piped up, and the men quieted, their hungry eyes turning towards her. “She’ll run straight to Petyr.”

“She will try.” The voice that responded was soft, reminding her of a serpent as a sharp-faced man slipped from the shadows into the clearing, with a larger man in tow. “But she will find him quite…unresponsive.”

Sansa noticed the blood on his tunic then, realizing that he was Gregor’s man, and that he had snuck into the castle and slain Petyr Baelish in his bed. All hope of rescue had abandoned her. Though she’d had to suffer Petyr’s attentions, he could never have been worse than Gregor Clegane…and now he was gone.

And now she sat in the midst of his men, traveling with the Mountain that Rides, her wrists throbbing cruelly from the tightness of her constraints. Sansa Stark had been taken from one prison to another, where she had become Alayne Stone, and then she’d thought that at last her luck was changing. 

But oh, how wrong she had been. 

She shifts in the saddle, torn from her thoughts as the men at last pull their tired horses to a stop. Gregor dismounts and turns to yank her from the saddle, his large hands squeezing her waist cruelly, certainly bruising her pale skin. It is the second night since he had taken her from the Vale, and she wonders if tonight will be the one that he kills her – or worse. Perhaps he senses this, because he grins and yanks her close to him. The smell of sweat and leather makes her wretch; it is so similar to the way Sandor smelt, and yet so very different. A lesser maid might have trembled and begged, but Sansa Stark has the blood of the North in her veins. She stares defiantly at him, her fading brown hair shifting in the breeze as she gazes up at the fearsome Mountain.

He grins, pushing her towards one of his men, the one who slaughtered Petyr – and slapping her on the rump in the process. “I like girls with spirit. It makes breaking them so much more satisfying,” he muses, and then the Mountain turns and goes to settle his stallion.

Only when he is gone does Sansa breathe a sigh of relief. She will be brave no matter what he does to her. It is the least she can do, she thinks, as the memory of a gentler Clegane flashes through her thoughts. 

If only he could see her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving the story along, slowly but surely!


	3. Elder Brother I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elder Brothers finds that he has guests upon the Quiet Isle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, I’ve decided that I won’t be following the storyline of Lady Stoneheart. Again, this will be a mixture of show and book events, though I’ll try to subtly mix the two. Though Lady Stoneheart will not be in this fic, the rest of the events surrounding Brienne’s journey are mostly the same, with a few minor changes that will be explained in the next chapter – mainly, Jaime. :) We will be following the books line of events for the relationship between Brienne and Sandor, which is that Brienne was NOT the one to injure Sandor as she did in the show; this will be their first time officially meeting. And lastly, we will once more be following book events regarding Sansa and Brienne – in that Brienne never encountered Sansa with Littlefinger in the Inn. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait on this one; work got crazy. I hope you all enjoy!

It is late when Brienne of Tarth arrives upon the Quiet Isle for the second time, and the Elder Brother is preparing for bed. 

The knock comes upon the door just as he finishes praying, and he rises to answer it, met by one of the young Brothers who has not yet taken his vow of silence. “Forgive me for the disturbance,” the boy says with reddening cheeks. He was only twelve, and a good lad, though still finding his place upon the Isle. “But we’ve just had visitors arrive – the Lady Brienne of Tarth, and…and Jaime Lannister.”

 _An interesting turn of events, to be sure,_ the Elder Brother thinks, pausing long enough to pull his robes over his night gown, lifting a dimly burning candle from his table before following after the lad. The boy leads him outside of the personal quarters and across the grounds, the sounds of crickets trilling noisily breaking the silence of the night. It is the Dining Hall that they approach, and Elder Brother ducks inside to find that several of the candles had been re-lit – enough for him to make out the familiar features of Brienne, who sits beside a hooded man that he assumes is Jaime Lannister, the two of them hungrily devouring the stew they’d been served. 

“They were hungry, and there was leftover soup from earlier,” the young Brother explains almost nervously, his voice making Brienne jump as she finally notices them, though her companion does not move to indicate he’d been startled. The Elder Brother holds up a hand to pacify the young Brother, who bows and moves aside as the older man moves to sit across from their guests. “I had not expected to see you back so soon,” he says lightly to Brienne, noting a gruesome scar along her cheek that had not been present before. “Especially not with a lion in tow.” 

Brienne flushes, her spoon clattering into her bowl. “Oh, I – it’s only that Jaime’s not like the rumors say, not like he was _before_. He’s different – well, that is to say –“

The Elder Brother smiles to halt her stammering. “I am the least likely person to judge a man for his past misdeeds. All humans are capable of change. You are welcome upon the Quiet Isle, Ser Jaime.” 

At last the hooded man looks up, the light from the candles catching his gnarled golden hair and sharp emerald gaze. He nods but does not speak as he resumes eating his stew; the Elder Brother does not miss how he awkwardly maneuvers the spoon in his left hand, his right wrist hidden somewhere in the folds of his cloak, so it does not come as a surprise when he shifts and the folds fall away to reveal a stump. A pity that he’d lost his sword hand, but perhaps it was exactly that event that had caused him to change, as Brienne had claimed.

“What is it that brings you back to the Quiet Isle? I fear we still have no news of the Ladies Sansa and Arya Stark.”

“Well, you see, that’s why we’ve come,” Brienne says. The Elder Brother quirks a brow but does not intervene, letting her continue. “We still cannot locate Arya, but there have been rumors concerning a girl who might possibly be Sansa Stark. A girl named as Petyr Baelish’s bastard was taken from the Vale half a moon’s turn ago, and Baelish himself was found dead in his chambers. And the one who took the girl, well…it’s Gregor Clegane.” 

The Elder Brother frowns. He has heard of the man known as the Mountain, of course, and he regrets to hear that a girl has been taken by him, a girl whom very well may be a Stark. But he lifts his hands and shakes his head, sighing. “It is dark news indeed, but I fear that I do not know how we may assist you in these matters. We upon the Quiet Isle are men of peace, and we do not meddle with –“ 

A quiet chuckle interrupts the Elder Brother, and at last Jaime Lannister speaks, having finished his stew. “Forgive me, Elder Brother, but there’s quite a bit more to our story. The lovely Brienne – “ here Brienne blushes, the Elder Brother notices, “ – told me of her original journey here, when she sought Sandor Clegane. And you told her that the Hound was dead. But naïve little Brienne noticed something as she was leaving – a man of extraordinary size, robed and cowled, making short work of digging graves. So while she may have left believing the words that you spoke, I fear that I won’t be so easily placated by lies.”

“I stated the The Hound was dead,” the Elder Brother says mildly. “I did not lie.”

“Half-truths then,” amends Jaime with a wave of his hand. “Elder Brother, with all due respect, there’s not a chance in hell that we’ll be able to rescue the girl from Gregor if she _is_ Sansa Stark. Brienne might kill the beast with a bit of luck, but there’s no guarantee, and I’m useless without my hand. There’s only one man who can give us a fighting chance, and I suspect that he hasn’t just pissed off and died like you’d have us believe. So let me clarify: is Sandor Clegane upon the Quiet Isle?”

For a moment, the Elder Brother does not speak, his hands clasped in front of him as he regards the two before him. Finally he sighs, his gaze traveling to Brienne. “Please forgive me, for I did not mean to deceive you. The Hound _is_ dead – but Brother Sandor lives. When you came seeking him, he’d only newly arrived, grievously injured, and he was still a bitter shell of a man. I could not in good conscious send him off into the world again to become more hateful, and perhaps to fall to his demise. He is better now, though he still refuses to take his vows. He does good, honest work here, drinks only in moderation, and spends much of his time training and exercising our horses and mules. He is a much different man now, and I fear that all progress will be lost if he learns that his brother of all men has taken something precious to him.”

Jaime’s brows shoot skyward at this, and Brienne appears puzzled. The Elder Brother surmises that they knew little of Sandor’s feelings regarding Sansa Stark, which he'd spoken to Sandor about when the man was at his lowest, the Milk of the Poppy muddling his senses as he sobbed about fire and flesh and steel. Still, Jaime is only deterred for a moment before a relentless look comes into his gaze, and the Elder Brother knows that he will not depart without speaking with Sandor. He sighs.

“Though, in truth, it is a decision that must be left up to Brother Sandor,” he says, and calls upon the young Brother who has waited so quietly in the corner to retrieve Sandor from his room. Silence falls upon them as the boy slips from the hall, with Jaime studying the Elder Brother and Brienne studying her own large hands. They sit this way for some time, until at the last the sound of heavy footsteps can be heard from outside, and Brienne’s gaze snaps to the door as it opens. 

The young Brother scuttles in first, shortly followed by a man who must duck to fit through the frame, the shadows concealing his features. There is a long pause, and then suddenly a rasping laugh sounds, the noise similar to that of squabbling dogs snarling. At last the man steps forward, revealing a face half marred by slick, angry burns, glistening gray eyes, and long strands of ebony hair neatly combed to one side. 

Sandor Clegane’s gaze is hard as he stares towards Jaime Lannister, and when he speaks, the Elder Brother frowns to himself.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Kingslayer?”


	4. Sandor I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor learns of the Little Bird's capture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we have a chapter from Sandor's POV!

Sandor is caught somewhere between sleep and waking when the knock sounds at his door.

Immediately he jolts up, reaching for a sword that is not there. Though he has spent many peaceful days upon the Quiet Isle, his instincts are still strong, urging him to defense in questionable situations. _Especially_ when he is awakened by a knock at the door when it’s well past the bloody hour of the wolf.

Snarling, he lurches out of bed and hastily pulls on his breeches, lacing them partially as he yanks open the door, the hinges giving a groan of protest at the force. A young Brother stands on the other side, and the lad jumps with an undignified squeak, his cheeks reddening a moment later.

“F-forgive me for the intrusion, Brother Sandor, but the Elder Brother requests your presence in the Dining Hall. It is urgent.”

 _Bugger the sodding Elder Brother and bugger you,_ he wants to say, but he does not. Instead he grunts a reply, finishing lacing his breeches as he turns to find his discarded tunic upon the floor, pulling it over his head. He does not have the patience to rifle through his things for his drab robes at the moment, so his common clothing will have to do. Quickly he runs a comb through his dark hair, attempting to partially cover the cruel scars that mar his features, before at last trailing after the stammering boy.

The air is crisp and cool as they step outside and head towards the Dining Hall, the autumn breeze caressing Sandor’s face gently. He is silent other than a single grunt of irritation when his bad leg twinges; as if it weren’t bloody annoying enough the way it makes him limp. Sometimes when he’s had a particularly frustrating day, when the wine is calling to him more so than usual, Sandor will pull his longsword from beneath his bed and slip off behind the stables to practice as well as he can on bales of hay. Though he is no longer a man of the sword, he’s known from the moment he woke from his addled state with a hole in his leg and the Elder Brother bent over him that he would have to remain diligent. He’d learned how to adjust to the weakness of his leg, and though his sparring currently serves no merit, it keeps him in shape.

His thoughts flee from him as they enter the Dining Hall. The candles are burning low, but there is plenty of light for him to see the trio that sits at the table: the Elder Brother, a hulking beast of a man, and…

His blood runs cold, the burned side of his mouth twitching madly, betraying his surprise as he steps forward into the light. The familiar rage and ire that he thought he’d buried so long ago threatens to rear its ugly head as he spits, “What the fuck are you doing here, Kingslayer?”

Jaime Lannister frowns, and as a brief silence falls over the group, Sandor takes a moment to study the man. His hair is longer and more unkempt than Sandor has ever seen it – even when they’d traveled together in their youth on war processions, he had never looked so rough and filthy. A beard that has just grown past the stage of stubble lines his fine jaw, and his green eyes seem wary and tired. The fingers of Sandor’s sword hand twitch; he wishes he’d brought his sword along, though the damned Elder Brother would have given him that annoying reproachful look he was so fond of if Sandor had. 

“Peace, Brother Sandor,” the Elder Brother says, butting in where he is not necessarily welcome, as usual. “Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne have come to ask for your help.”

 _Lady_ Brienne? His hooded gaze flickers back to the one he’d assumed was a male, and belatedly he remembers talk of this woman at court. Brienne the Beauty, they’d called her, and to his surprise he feels a twinge of…not sympathy, but perhaps _understanding_. She is unfortunately very ugly, much like Sandor knows himself to be, and it’s clear that even what she hides between her legs cannot spare her from the ridicule he’s endured the majority of his life.

“My help?” He asks after a moment, still not moving to sit. “And what could I possibly offer you, Kingslayer? I’m no Hound anymore; I am no dog waiting in the shadows to be set upon your enemies, even if you can no longer kill them yourself.” Jaime winces as Sandor’s gaze travels pointedly towards the stump of his hand.

“If you are no longer to be called Hound, then I am no longer to be called Kingslayer. You’re not the only one that wishes to shed the skins of past lives,” Jaime says. There is a pause then, and for a brief moment Sandor sees a flash of the familiar coy smile that looks so very much like the bloody Queen’s. “And you say that you will not be set upon my enemies…but what if _my_ enemies and _your_ enemies are the same, Clegane?”

“Piss on your riddles. Who?”

“Gregor.”

Silence. Sandor clenches his fists at his side.

But Jaime is not done. “And he has Sansa Stark.”

All of the air seems to leave the room at once. For a moment Sandor sways, the name hitting him like a cannonball in the gut. One large hand flies out to steady himself against the nearest pillar, strands of black hair falling into his eyes as his gaze bores into Jaime. He sees no hint of lies there, no trickery, and that makes him ache. He knows what Gregor does to delicate, precious things; it’s what Gregor has _always_ done to the things that Sandor cherishes. And Sansa…

He's allowed himself to think of her far too much since he fled King’s Landing the night that the Blackwater burned. Carting around her bitch of a sister hadn’t helped, but he’d done it. For the money, Sandor had told the wolf-bitch, but really a part of it had been for Sansa, too. And when Arya had left him dying by the Trident, it was Sansa that he’d thought of. He’d closed his eyes with tears running down his filthy cheeks and pictured a different outcome to the night of the Blackwater. He imagined running his fingers through her fine, silky strands of fiery hair. He imagined touching the smooth, pale skin of her shoulders, kissing his way across her collarbone, making her feel _safe_ \- and she allowing it, enjoying it even. Life was not a song, he’d told her, but even he had painted such a pretty picture in his mind when he thought himself to be in his final moments. The pain had wracked him, but thoughts of Sansa had offered him a fraction of bliss.

And then the darkness had taken him. He’d been heavily sedated for so long, and sometimes he dreamed of Gregor and the horrors he’d wrought…but then he’d dream of wide blue eyes, a tilting smile, and all would be right. When he at last could stay awake without the pain causing him agony, he’d brooded and snarled at the Elder Brother. Thoughts of how he had failed her mingled with the throbbing from his leg, making his mood particularly foul. He’d heard of how she’d been married to the lecherous little Imp, of all people, and then subsequently her escape from King’s Landing after the shit-king Joffrey had been poisoned. It was difficult to imagine her poisoning anyone, but he’d been content to know that she was gone from that pit of snakes.

But now she had been found, and by the worst of captors.

“Where was she taken from?” He demands, striding forward and slamming his hands down on the table, spoons rattling noisily in empty bowls. Brienne shoots him a wide-eyed look, which he ignores – and he also ignores the Elder Brother’s pointed “tsk” and that damned _look_. He has eyes only for Jaime, who gazes back without fear.

“The Vale.”

“Littlefucker.” Sandor can’t help the hard, cold laugh that slips from his lips. “I should have known. How the bloody hell did Gregor manage to take her from there? And how did you find out?”

“We’re not entirely sure how she was taken, but Littlefinger is dead,” Jaime offers. “And it’s hardly a secret. Gregor and his men have been spotted multiple times as they ride across the land – headed for Clegane Keep, by the sounds of it. Survivors of their passing band have reported that they ride with a red-haired captor, and really, it’s all terribly convenient, don’t you think?”

“It seems as if a girl named as Littlefinger’s bastard turned up in the Vale shortly after Sansa disappeared from King’s Landing,” Brienne says, speaking for the first time. Sandor looks to her, and her cheeks turn pink with the attention turned upon her, but she continues. “Baelish kept it well under wraps, but with him dead, the men of the Vale seem more inclined to talk.”

“And what part do you have in this?” Sandor barks. Jaime frowns, but Brienne speaks again before he can.

“I swore a vow to Lady Catelyn before her death that I would find Sansa. Even though she is gone, I do not consider myself to be released from that vow.”

“And you?” He asks Jaime, who shrugs. “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d give a damn about a Stark either way.”

“I swore a vow to Lady Catelyn as well, when she so graciously had me captured. It seems as if she was very good at getting people to swear to her, doesn’t it?”

“And your beloved sister actually allowed you to leave her clutches to see it done?”

Sandor does not miss how Jaime’s look darkens, and the man looks away. “I would rather not talk about Cersei.”

“So you want me to help you rescue Sansa.” It is a statement, not a question, and all eyes turn to Sandor. His chest rises and falls rapidly as images of Gregor and Sansa flash through his mind. _He will hurt her, torture her, and kill her only when she is too broken to be a proper toy to him._ His blood boils at the thought, his vision seeming to darken. He tried so hard to protect Sansa in King’s Landing, and now…now she has fallen prey to the one man that Sandor despises with all of his being, the one man that has destroyed everything. 

“It is a decision that is left entirely up to you.” The Elder Brother’s voice is gentle as he turns to Sandor, his eyes free of judgment. “You came to me bitter and broken, and I have tried to heal some of the rage within you, some of the hatred directed at your kin. But even I could not have foreseen these circumstances, and you have not taken your vows. So the choice is yours, Sandor.”

Choice. As if there ever was one. He’d been tied to the Little Bird from the moment he saw her, and once more he finds himself becoming a pathetic dog, all raised hackles and bared teeth when one dares hurt the first one who had dared show him kindness. He makes a noise in his throat that is something between a rasp and a sob, his words forced out between his teeth. “I’ll go to her. I must.”

He can see Brienne relax visibly, and Jaime nod. “We’ll leave immediately on the morrow – “ he begins, but Sandor cuts him off.

“No. Now. Every moment that she is in Gregor’s grasp is a moment that her life is in grave danger.”

“We must let our horses rest, and our bodies as well,” Jaime says. Sandor opens his mouth to protest further, to tell the Kingslayer that he can bugger himself if he thinks they’re not leaving immediately, but the golden-headed fuck cuts him off before he can. “I swear to you that we will leave at first light. Just a few hours to rest, to gather provisions, and then we will be off.”

It is not enough. Sandor wants to go _now_ , wants to sprout wings and fly like one of the bloody dragons that rumors speak of. He wants to ride without stopping until Gregor is dead and Sansa is safe in his arms once more. But he knows that Jaime speaks sensibly.

“At first light,” he grinds out, and then he moves away from the table and strides from the Hall to go ready his things, the heavy thudding of his boots pounding in time with the beat of his heart, thundering like war drums in his ears.


	5. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally arrives at Clegane Keep with Gregor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> Sorry for the wait on this one - I had a birthday last week, and then a pretty full work schedule. But I'm happy to be able to post this!
> 
> As a warning, there are brief mentions of violence/abuse and implied future non-con elements. No non-consensual acts happen in this chapter, and the violence/slight abuse is not graphic or particularly bad. But I wanted to give everyone a heads up! Also, strong language, as always!

The trip from the Vale to Clegane Keep feels like the longest of Sansa’s life.

She is watched mostly by the sharp-eyed man who killed Petyr, named Brenn, but all of Gregor’s men seem to take pleasure in taunting her, murmuring lewd, bawdy things that make the hulking Mountain grin. And his grin is sickening, instilling dread in Sansa’s core despite the way she tries to stiffen her spine and ignore it. Her wrists are raw from the rope that ties her to the pommel of her horse’s saddle, her dress is filthy and her hair tangled, and her pride is bruised from the embarrassment of having to make water hovering behind trees, so very close to men who regularly threaten her honor. But the worst part is when she is left tied to her horse while Gregor and his men rape and pillage poor, unsuspecting villages, unable to look away from the horror and bloodshed unfolding before her.

After one particularly vicious raid, she cannot help retching over the side of her saddle, and cruel laughter meets her ears. Her eyes burn as Gregor stalks towards her like some great, ferocious wildcat, lifting a bloodied hand to smear the crimson liquid across first one of her cheeks, and then the other. “Poor thing,” he rumbles, though there in so sympathy in his voice as his fingers tangle painfully in her hair, tugging at the auburn threads. “So fragile you are. I thought you Starks were supposed to be made of stronger stock, for as much as people boast about the strength of the North. But you’re no she-wolf, are you? Just a mewling pup.”

In that moment, Sansa wishes she was like Arya, whom she’d once witnessed spitting into the face of an insolent Northerner’s son who’d laughingly called her ‘Horseface’. Ladies do not spit, however, and it likely only would have enraged Gregor, as much as the thought of it made her want to, no matter how ashamed her mother would have been of her. _But mother is dead,_ she reminds herself as Gregor releases her hair, her scalp smarting. She nurses her hatred for the man like a flickering flame within her, and as she watches Gregor mount his horse, she remembers another man who harbored a burning abhorrence for the Mountain, a man who’d tried to warn her that life was cruel and unfair. She misses him in that moment, his solid strength, his hard eyes, even his rasping laugh as he mocked her naivety. She would have given anything to see him riding over the horizon on that horrible black destrier of his. 

But in the end she is alone, surrounded by vile men, forced to stare at the broad back of the Mountain as she rides behind him. No one is coming for her, she reminds herself, not with her family dead, with Petyr slaughtered, and with the Hound rumored to be buried somewhere.

And though she has told herself not to this whole trip, though she has kept a dry visage thus far, Sansa feels a single tear trace a warm path down her grimy cheek. 

\----

“We’re only a week’s ride away, you know,” Brenn says to her one night as they’re seated around the fire. He’s reclined against the trunk of a tree, sucking the fat off of a greasy bone leftover from that night’s bland dinner of hare’s. Sansa watches him for a moment before her gaze flickers to the bones from _her_ portion, which she cleaned with her filthy handkerchief and placed in a prim pile at her feet. She’s been saving the bones from her portions for the last week, leaving them by her bedroll for the morning sun to dry and bleach, before stuffing them in the pocket of her cloak, which is beginning to bulge with her collection. Perhaps soon she can find some rope, so that she can make something of her morbid collection. It’s not as if she has anything else to do on her journey. 

“I’ll take your silence for excitement.” Brenn laughs, the sound slick like oil, and her nose wrinkles, though she still does not deign to respond. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Reckon Gregor’ll finally have his way with you when we get there. Suppose he hasn’t had you yet because he wants to properly make you his wife first.”

At this, Sansa can’t resist. “But he _can’t_ make me his wife. My marriage to Tyrion Lannister was never annulled.” 

From her other side, a burly man with enough hair on his knuckles to knit a cloak chortles - the one who helped Brenn kill Petyr. She can’t remember his name, but she thinks it might be Malik or Marlan. “Think he cares? The Queen clearly didn’t, and ya know she had to’ve considered it, sharp cunt that she is. He’ll marry you at a sept just to make a mummer’s farce of you, bed you, and probably kill you. All within a fortnight I’d wager.”

The Queen. So she had sent Gregor for Sansa. She feels her heart clench and freeze, as if encapsulated by ice. Of course she should have known that Cersei would never let her live. And of course she would not grant Sansa an honorable death; no, it’s no surprise that Cersei has ensured she will suffer. 

“Marak’s right,” Brenn points out. _Marak,_ Sansa thinks, but then Brenn continues, and she feels her face pale. “Though I’d say you’ll survive a moon’s turn at the least. He’ll want to play a bit before he throws his new toy aside. Reckon he’s never had one as lovely as you.”

“Maybe he’ll let us have a turn before he breaks her,” Marak leers. 

“They call my family dogs, and yet you’re the ones begging at my heels for scraps,” a deep, grating voice points out. A shadow looms over Sansa as Gregor nears, though she does not turn to face him. She would have to crane her head back to look at him from her vantage point, and she will not stoop to that level. 

She tries to tune them out as Gregor joins them by the fire, sitting uncomfortably close to her, though she cannot resist a gasp of indignation and pain when his large hands comes to rest upon her knee over her gown, enfolding it, crushing it in his grip. She will not give him further satisfaction by attempting to wriggle away; already her noise made him grin, displaying several cracked, chipped teeth. Though she will likely die at his hands, she finds a strange sort of strength in knowing that she will _never_ be his wife for true. She will not wedded to a Clegane.

 _At least not wedded to_ Gregor _Clegane_ , she amends. It’s as much solace as she’s going to get, and that night when she falls asleep with Gregor snoring uncomfortably close to her, she dreams of Sandor. 

\---  
Sure enough, it is a week later when the shape of a modest manor is spotted on the horizon.

Sansa is in a foul mood, her rump bruised from riding, the rest of her body sore from her captor’s less-than-gentle handling of her. At least they'd finally stopped tying her wrists when the skin there began to show signs of scarring and inflammation, something that had vainly rankled Sansa before she remembered that it did not matter anymore. She is busy stringing bones onto a length of twine when Brenn steers his mount closer to her and instructs, “Look, little pup.”

It’s a degrading nickname they’ve taken to calling her lately, and she resists for a moment, her Tully blue gaze firmly locked on tying her creation about her thin waist. But then Brenn’s long, pale fingers reach out to grasp her chin, forcibly lifting her head. Her eyes find the Keep that they are quickly approaching, and she thinks that perhaps had Gregor not so clearly allowed it to go to ruin, it might have been beautiful once. It’s made of brick she sees as they grow ever closer, with vines of ivy crawling up the walls, and windows made of colored glass. There is a gate surrounding the Keep, but it is unguarded; they ride through unchallenged, though Sansa assumes anyone who would storm Clegane Keep knowing that the Mountain reigns there would be a foolish man indeed.

The courtyard is small, with a little stable tucked off to one side, and what looks to be an abandoned barracks on the other. Behind the Keep she spots what she thinks is a tiny overgrown garden, and Sansa frowns. Perhaps if she’d been brought here under different circumstances, with a different Clegane, she could have made the keep lovely…

 _Foolish girl,_ she thinks, ashamed and angry with herself. The voice in her head sounds suspiciously like the Hound’s. _That empty head is still filled with foolish daydreams._

She does not miss how there is very little life to be found in the Keep. In Winterfell, the sounds of sparring soldiers and squealing babes could be heard beyond the gates. The smell of roasting meat was always thick in the air, and the stronghold had seemed so _alive_. It was a stark difference from what lay before her now.

Gregor’s horse gives a snort of annoyance, and at last a young boy comes scurrying from the stables, eyes as wide as saucer’s. Terror practically radiates from him as he hastens to bow to Gregor, offering a stammered greeting as the Mountain dismounts and tosses the boy his reins. All around her the others are dismounting as well, and slowly a second boy comes from the stables to help, looking nearly identical to the first. Brothers, Sansa assumes.

Before she can further scrutinize the lads, she is being yanked from her saddle by Gregor, who throws her over his shoulder much to the amusement of his men. Sansa’s face flushes as one of Gregor’s hands lands upon her rump to steady her, though she does not bother to struggle – not when she can see Brenn and Marak slipping behind their masters like loyal currs. 

They approach the Keep, she presumes by the way the dirt turns to gravel, and then they’re climbing a steep set of stairs that leads to the main doors. One-handed, Gregor throws them open with a bang, and from within comes a startled gasp. A moment later Sansa is roughly being sat on her feet, her auburn hair tangled about her neck and face. She tosses her head to free her vision from the irritating tangles, just in time to see an older maid in a ratty dress practically prostrating herself before Gregor.

“Welcome back, m’lord,” she mumbles, trying to hide her trembling hands in her apron. Sansa sees, and feels pity course through her. It seems as if she is not the only one at Gregor’s mercy.

“Get up, wench,” Gregor snarls, and the maid hastens to obey. Sansa watches with a stiff spine and an insolent tilt of her chin as the maid’s eyes flick across her gnarled hair, her torn dress, her bruised skin, and the belt of bones now dangling from her waist. And then briefly, lined brown eyes meet Tully blue. In them Sansa sees understanding, tenderness, and pity. She feels her facade slip, her lip trembling at this unexpected show of comradery from a woman she has just met. But then Gregor is speaking again, shattering the spell with his growling. 

“My new wife-to-be needs to be seen to her rooms. Make sure she gets a bath. She smells about as good as those fat pigs pinned behind the kitchens.” He sneers at this, and his massive hand reaches out to grab Sansa roughly by her arm. Already she knows that her pale skin will begin forming a mark the moment he releases her. “Don’t even think of trying to escape, girl. Brenn and Marak will be watching you, and if you try anything, I have half a mind to let them give you a little test run before our _marriage_.”

She brazenly meets his gaze, but sees only cruel promise there. He grins, and then suddenly she’s being shoved forward into the maid’s grasp, her feet tangled beneath her. She hears the heavy sound of Gregor’s retreating footsteps, and a moment later she hears him in a distant room, shouting threatening demands for wine and dinner. 

Shakily she lifts her gaze to meet the maid’s once more. The older woman offers a frail smile as she moves to lead Sansa through the corridors.

“Come on, love,” the woman says. “Let’s run you a hot bath and get you a warm meal, shall we?”

For the first time since her abduction, Sansa allows herself to truly break.


	6. Jaime I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Brienne, and Sandor draw closer to Clegane's Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was worried that I’d made the journey from Clegane’s Keep to the Vale too short…but I looked into it and I think I did okay – I thought Clegane’s Keep was further away originally! Because the Quiet Isle is remarkably close to the Vale, it will take Sandor and company the same amount of time to reach Clegane’s Keep as it took Gregor – I believe I stated a bit over a month. Assuming that Jaime and Brienne heard about Gregor fairly quickly and immediately made for the Quiet Isle, we’ll say that they’re about 2 weeks behind Gregor now, just to throw this all into proportion for you guys. 
> 
> A bit of gore in this chapter; nothing terribly explicit.
> 
> Also, I already have the next chapter written, though I'm trying to pace myself and not post it ASAP! Expect it by the weekend. I'm so excited to get this rolling. :D

Sandor is like an absolute madman. 

Jaime understands the importance of reaching Sansa Stark as swiftly as possible, of course, and yet Sandor – whom he still struggles to not refer to as _Hound_ \- is excessive in his efforts. Had Jaime allowed it, the beast of a man would have ridden their horses into the ground, and then some. The first day after departing from the Quiet Isle, they’d ridden for endless hours without stopping, with Sandor mounted atop his great black destrier in the lead. On and on they had went, the sky changing colors gradually – from the dull gray of morning to the pleasant light blue of the day, and then at last to inky blackness that made it nearly impossible to see. The horses were blown and fatigued, foaming at the mouths when at last Jaime pleaded for a few hours of respite. 

“The horses will break their legs in the dark, and likely our necks as well,” he’d exclaimed when Sandor had steadfastly ignored him. Sandor had turned on him, snarling like a creature possessed, but then he’d halted as he caught sight of Jaime and Brienne’s horses. Though Brienne had not dared utter a word of complaint, she was clearly exhausted, and her horse even more so. Sandor’s cursing as he’d dismounted had been enough to make Brienne blush, the color only deepening when Jaime had smirked at her.

They’d slept precious few hours that first night, dining on some of the provisions the Elder Brother had given them. At first light, Sandor had roused them, and off they’d gone again.

It has been three weeks since they first set out, Jaime realizes as they canter their horses along the winding trails, and therefore a week since Gregor had presumably arrived at Clegane’s Keep. They had skirted Harrenhal some time ago, and were now picking their way through the Riverlands, attempting to both avoid detection and make quick time. It is no easy feat. Jaime is sure that should they be stopped by the bannermen of House Tully, they can certainly get away with their heads attached should they bring up their oath to Catelyn Stark and their intent to save the remaining Stark daughter…but then again, he can’t be sure. He _is_ the loathed Kingslayer, after all, with the Hound and Brienne the Beauty as companions. No, perhaps it would _not_ go well for them if they were intercepted now. The thought makes him smile grimly. 

From beside him, Brienne notices; she cocks her head quizzically at him, and he cannot help but brighten under her gaze, sitting up straighter in his saddle as he steers Honor towards her own bay mare. Sandor rides ahead of them, as usual, his back straight and his pace hurried. Soon he’ll insist upon galloping the horses again, and Jaime plans to at least enjoy some conversation before they’re off riding like possessed demons for the millionth time that day.

“I’m beginning to forget what it feels like to _not_ be on horseback,” Jaime laments, and Brienne nods her silent agreement. She looks bone-tired, he notes, but still so very determined. She will not rest easily until the Stark girl is found – much like the surly man who rides abreast of them. “Not to mention hot baths; what I wouldn’t give for one right now. Especially here, with mud up to my ears. Did you know that it’s said by some inhabitants of the Riverlands that the Lords of Riverrun sink into the mud of the rivers, and hold eternal court with the fish and the –“

“That’s enough idiocy from you,” Sandor barks from ahead, and the laugh that had begun to bubble from Brienne’s lips dies off, tapering into a frown. “If you’ve got enough time to be running your mouth, then perhaps we should start galloping again. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that Sansa will be dead when we arrive.”

“You certainly are the cheerful sort,” Jaime replies, entirely undisturbed by Sandor’s snapping. “I _know_ that we must hurry, for the hundredth time, but we will be slower still if we lame a horse or run into trouble. We’re no good to Sansa if we’re dead.”

Sandor levels a cold gaze at Jaime over his shoulder, offering an irritated snort when Jaime flashs a grin in return. In truth, Jaime _is_ worried about Sansa. He remembers perfectly well how awful Gregor was – and in turn how kind and gentle Sansa had been on the few occasions he’d encountered her. She had always reminded him of a defenseless animal caught in a vicious trap, so out of place in the vipers pit that had been King’s Landing. And now she is in even more danger. Worst of all, however, is that Jaime suspects Cersei has a hand in this. Clegane’s Keep is painfully close to Casterly Rock, and certainly word of Gregor’s abduction had reached King’s Landing by now. Cersei could have ordered Lannister men to retrieve Sansa if she’d wished; the Clegane’s are technically bannermen of the Lannisters, after all, even though Sandor has deserted. Gregor would not have been able to refuse should he have wished to keep his head. And yet, as far as Jaime knows, no one has been sent to retrieve Sansa. It makes his gut clench painfully, and perhaps it shows on his face, for Brienne’s mailed arm closes the distance between them, her large palm resting on his shoulder. 

“Are you quite alright?” She asks kindly, genuine concern written upon her face. She is so different from Cersei, so gentle and yet somehow brave. Though Jaime has rarely been one to care much for others in his past, things changed after his brief imprisonment and his journey with Brienne. And already he can see that she is so tired, so strained, and yet still she sits looking at him with care in her gaze. He cannot not bring himself to add to her burdens with his folly; instead he smiles.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he declares. 

“Unfortunately,” Sandor grumbles from ahead, and before Jaime can reply, the man urges Stranger into a gallop. Jaime sighs and winces at the throb of irritation that his backside and spine offer, but he does not hesitate to urge Honor to follow, with Brienne riding steadfastly at his side. 

\---

They come upon the border between the Riverlands and the Westerlands two days later, when the sun in high in the sky. Jaime sits with the stump of his right hand cradled in his lap, his left hand holding half-stale bread to his lips as he devours it. It is not enough to sate his hunger, but it will have to be, for now. Perhaps Sandor will hunt when they make camp that night; it will be three days at the least until they reach Clegane’s Keep, which is generous considering it should take five, and the terrain is not particularly forgiving. And yet still Sandor is restless.

Restlessness, Jaime knows, leads to carelessness. And it is just this that leads them to be stupid in their decisions. As they move along the path that leads through two towering rocks on either side, they are slumped in their saddles, hot and weary. Jaime in particular is practically dozing despite their pace when suddenly Brienne gasps. His eyes fly open, his hand automatically moving to his sword as he yanks Honor to a halt. It takes him a moment to spot the cause for alarm, but certainly there is one, for Sandor has drawn his greatsword as well.

Six men seem to bleed from the rocks themselves, dressed all in grey and brown. Two of them wield bows, Jaime notices, and they hang back from the rest of the group. The four others all have swords drawn, the burliest of which steps forward with a leer.

“Well, well. What do we have here? You lot look like shit, and your horses not much better, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers, eh? Why don’t the three of you drop those weapons, dismount, and leave the saddlebags on the horses. This can be a peaceful exchange.”

Sandor snorts contemptuously, but before he can offer much else, Jaime urges Honor forwards. He tosses his hair and lifts his chin with all of the arrogant contempt he can muster from the man he used to be, hiding his stump in the folds of his cloak as he speaks. He knows that his dirty clothing, unkempt hair, and wiry beard will do little for his claim – but perhaps his piercing emerald gaze and commanding voice will. “Peace, men. I am Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin, rightful heir to Casterly Rock. What business do you have in the Westerlands?” 

He hopes that perhaps they are men loyal to the Lannisters, though he suspects that his hopes will be in vain. No Lannister man goes slinking through the passes of their own home, preying upon those who ride into the lion’s den. And he is right; the leader of the men laughs, the sound booming, echoing off the rock around them. Jaime sees Sandor tenses, senses Brienne shifting behind him, and he knows in that moment that things will soon go south. 

“Business? Well I suppose the business of any man broke and hungry, aye? And we’ve found a treat; a lords son!” _Not just any lords son,_ Jaime wants to growl, but he holds his tongue. “Come now, I won’t ask again. Off the horses, and don’t think of trying anything. My archers will have to kill you if you do.”

A rasping laugh comes from Sandor then, the sound deep and grating, almost manic. His steel-hued eyes scream ‘warning’, like the gaze of a dog before it closes its jaws over a lingering hand. “I’ve come this far, and I won’t let any of you bleeding bastards stand in my way now, do you hear me? Not you, not your sodding archers who can barely handle those bows of theirs, and not the cowering men behind you who look sooner to tuck tail and run than fight.”

Sandor has always been a fierce man; Jaime remembered the first time he spotted him at Casterly Rock as a lad, burned and ferocious, large for his age even then. But there is something different in him now, a determination like none Jaime has even seen in the man before. It is in the set of his jaw, the blaze of his eyes. It has been there for longer than just now, though; Jaime has seen it in the way his lips form Sansa’s name, the way he fervently insists they _hurry, hurry_ , and the way he exclaims that Sansa could be dead at any moment and yet refuses to believe even his own words. No, whatever went on between the girl and the Hound when Jaime was not around will not allow Sandor to lose her now. It is plain as day.

Before the leader can even think to respond, Stranger is lunging forward in an explosion of hooves, mane flying as a chilling scream erupts from the mount. The men startle, the archers loosing arrows, but they miss their mark by inches as Sandor’s blade flashes quick as a snake strikes. A mist of blood showers through the air, hot droplets peppering the earth as the burly leader falls, sliced nearly in two. It is all Jaime sees before he is urging Honor forward, his own sword whirling downwards to meet the blade of one of the men, who parries just in time. He has the upper hand on Honor, dealing vicious downward strokes, but he is still not as good with his left hand as he could be, and it is this that prolongs the man’s death. 

From the corner of his eye he sees Brienne, apparently having been knocked from her own mount, though the horse prances not far away. She is fending off the two remaining men with swords as Sandor rides down the pitiful archers, one of the men screaming in agony as his hand goes flying through the air, cut cleanly from his forearm. It is a pain that Jaime knows well, and his grin is grim as he swings his sword at the man before him once more, the tip of his sword catching the man beneath the chin. He lets out a gurgle as he falls, but Jaime is already whirling his horse around, riding for the smaller man that Brienne is fending off. The larger is already wounded, bleeding from a gash to his arm, and Jaime has no doubt that Brienne will finish him soon. 

By the time he has felled the smaller man and paused just long enough to check on Brienne, Sandor is steering Stranger back to them. His armor is covered in blood, his hair matted with it, and the look in his eyes is near-feral. For a long moment he is silent, breathing hard as he and Jaime lock eyes. And then he grunts, gesturing to Brienne. “Catch that mare of yours and come along. Not long ‘til dusk. We’ll ride as long as we can, and then we’ll make camp.”

\---

They dine on a meal of plump hare that night, paired with cheese and figs from their stores. After assisting each other with their armor, they check for injuries. Though Jaime has blessedly suffered none, Sandor has a small gash on his elbow where a last-second, panicked arrow from one of the archers grazed him. He seems more concerned with his dented armor than his wound, though he grudgingly cleans it when Brienne insists. 

And Brienne herself has two small wounds of her own, one on either cheek. She sullenly remarks that she did not think she could become uglier, before laughing at her own expense. Jaime, however, does not laugh. He simply takes the damp cloth from her hands and begins to clean her cuts himself, eliciting a blush from her and a soft “thank you”. 

“Shall I wander off somewhere so that the two of you can fuck in privacy, then?” Sandor rasps from across the tiny fire they built, pulling greasy meat from bones lazily, almost languidly.

“What?” Brienne splutters, turning an even deeper crimson, if possible. “We’re not – that’s not even sensible, he was only cleaning my wounds!”

“Don’t let him rile you up,” Jaime advises, giving her cheek one final swipe with the cloth before flopping back against his bedroll. Still flushed, Brienne silently settles back against her own, picking at her food.

Jaime’s gaze finds Sandor’s across the fire, noting that the man is more relaxed than he has seen him since finding him upon the Quiet Isle. “And what’s happened to you? Are you sure that wound isn’t worse than you’re letting on? I can hardly believe you’re not chomping at the bit to ride our horses to death.”

“Can’t ride through the night,” Sandor rasps, and Jaime rolls his eyes incredulously, for that is _precisely_ what he’s been telling the man. “Besides,” Sandor continues, “we’re close now. We’ll ride hard tomorrow, and every day after that until we’ve arrived. I intend to be well-rested and well fed when we do, because nothing - _nothing_ \- will stop me from what I have to do.”

Jaime is oddly struck by the gleam of determination in Sandor’s eyes. There is a long moment of silence where the larger man looks away, and though his voice is incredibly soft when he speaks again, his gaze turned in the direction of Clegane’s Keep, Jaime does not miss his words. “I’m coming for you.”

He wonders if Sandor means Gregor, or Sansa.


	7. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa begins to grow used to her time spent in Clegane's Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh...I know I said I was gonna wait to post this...but I just couldn't. I wrote yet another chapter in advance, so I figure that one can be posted this weekend, and you all can have this one now. ;) 
> 
> A brief scene containing a bit of gore/death.

_I still feel a heart that’s beating but I can’t feel love,_  
_I still feel a life inside me but I feel no blood._  
_I still clench my teeth and I pull out my hair;_  
_my skin and bones are bare._  
_I’ve been living with the weight of the world_  
_and the moon and the stars._  
  


Sansa spends the first three days of her stay at Clegane’s keep holed up in the room she’s been given, torn between boredom and fear. Fear because she knows that while he has stayed away for as long as he has, Gregor will come to her soon. The older maid assigned to her care, a saint of a woman named Margo, informs her that Gregor has been busy attempting to shape the run-down keep into something partially inhabitable. She also tells Sansa that there have already been four deaths of servants at the hands of Gregor, something that makes Sansa shudder. Luckily, the stable boys both live; they are Margo’s sons, Sansa learns.

On the fourth night, after Sansa has finished her meal and bathed, she slips into one of the older fashioned dresses she finds in the dressers. She wonders which of Gregor’s wives the clothing belonged to, and tries not to dwell on the fact that she is wearing a dead woman’s clothes. _It’s better than being naked,_ she tells herself as she sits at the little wooden vanity, staring into the looking glass as she brushes her hair. Margo has been a saint about scrounging up items to make Sansa more comfortable, from the brush she wields to the slightly too-small slippers on her feet. It is nothing compared to the luxury Petyr offered her when she was known as Alayne Stone (and even _that_ had been nothing compared to the finery she was used to), but she is alive, and for that, Sansa is grateful. 

Her hair shines like fire in the candle light, cascading to her waist. All of the dye Petyr had insisted upon has washed clean now, leaving only vivid tresses in their wake. She traces the strands with her eyes, though her gaze is drawn by a gleam upon the vanity before her. It is her belt of bones, which she hasn’t worn since she arrived at Clegane’s Keep, but which she has kept. She places her brush down gently, reaching to trace the ivory points with her finger, some of them sharp enough to prick, others round and smooth. It is a testament to her journey, a diary of sorts, a way for her to record what she has endured. She’s even kept a few bones from her meals here and there, small ones that she laces between the larger, a way to count her days. 

A knock comes on the door and she startles, pulling her robe tightly around herself as she stands. _Not him, not him, please Gods,_ she thinks, her knuckles bone white where they clutch at the chair behind her. The door opens slowly, and all of her breath whooshes out of her at once as Margo pokes her head in the door. 

“My apologies, dear,” she soothes, not missing the way Sansa’s face has blanched pale white. “Are you feeling up to seeing the Maester, just for a short moment?”

The Maester. She had been surprised when Margo had informed her that Clegane’s Keep had one days ago. Wordlessly she nods, and Margo sweeps inside, following closely by an aged man, his chain heavy with links. As the door closes, Sansa catches a glimpse of Brenn stationed outside, picking at his nails as he leans against the opposite wall. He glances up just in time to grin at her before the door shuts. 

“Hello, my dear,” the Maester says, dragging Sansa’s attention back to him. “I am Maester Asten. I regret that it has taken me so long to meet with you, but I have been, ah, preoccupied.” 

With Gregor and his swift return to murdering servants and hurting poor serving girls, Sansa assumes. She dips her head graciously, once more the chirping bird from King’s Landing and not the bastard Alayne. “There is no cause for forgiveness, Maester. Would you like tea? It’s a bit cool from dinner, but I have plenty left.”

The older man bends his head in acceptance, a touched smile springing to his lips. “Oh, my, well yes. Thank you, child.” 

Sansa leads him over to the tiny, lopsided table, watching as he lowers himself slowly into one of the chairs. He reminds her of Maester Luwin in a way, his hair white as snow and his eyes kind. _How is it that the servants of a monster are so wonderful? Life is cruel,_ she finds herself thinking as Margo bustles over to fill their cups with tea. The Maester takes his gratefully, sipping at it as he surveys Sansa.

“I have served House Clegane for many years,” he tells her at last when he has placed the cup down. “And I have seen many things, my dear. Grave, terrible things. I arrived here…ah, it must have been just before Gregor took his first wife, but after the young Clegane had left.” 

Sansa’s heart jolts at the mention of Sandor, but she does not dare interrupt. 

“You are a sweet girl, and I am so very sorry that you have found yourself here. But I will do all that I can for you. Please tell me truly, has he hurt you?”

“Oh, no, Maester. Not terribly,” Sansa hurries to assure him. “A bit of bruising from his grips, but he has not done anything worse. He has not even…” Here she looks down, but she does not blush as she once might have. All of her innocence was chased away by Randa’s bawdy tales and Petyr’s insistent touches. He had not robbed her of her maidenhead, not when she would need it for her marriage to Harry the Heir… but one did not need to take a maidenhead to take their pleasures, Sansa had learned – though it has always been _his_ pleasure, never hers. 

“I am glad to hear it,” Maester Asten assures, reaching forward to pat her small hand with his own aged, wrinkled one. It is a strange comfort, and Sansa feels tears threaten. “For your bruises, I’ll send a poultice. And please, do not hesitate to come to me when you are in need of more.” 

_When._ Not if. It makes Sansa’s stomach clench, but she nods all the same, thanking him twice as Margo helps him to the door. And then she is left alone with her thoughts. Rising, she moves to extinguish the candles, wishing not for the first time that her door had bars. She is not comfortable knowing that any moment Gregor or one of her awful guards can come in, but there is nothing to be done for it. She has stashed one of her dinner knives beneath her pillow, though she knows it will do little against a man such as Gregor. Still, she clutches the handle of it as she slides into bed, nuzzling down into her blankets. 

How easy it is to close her eyes and imagine that she is in Winterfell again, no more than a girl. But it’s even easier to imagine that she is not alone in her bed. She can perfectly picture how it would feel for a heavy body to slide in beside her, strong arms enveloping her as she nuzzles into their warmth. She can feel the scratch of a beard, the brush of soft skin against her own, and then skin that is harder, courser, burned… 

Her thoughts no longer surprise her. She pictures him frequently like this, sometimes wrapped around her for comfort, sometimes offering her things that no other man has dared. She _yearns_ for him in every sense of the way, longs to see his grey eyes again, to hear his rasping voice. She knows it is foolish, but she cannot not help herself. It is the only thing that offers her comfort anymore. 

Not for the first time, she feeks a pang of sorrow as she remembers his cloak, stained with ash and blood. It is tucked beneath her bed, where she’d stuffed it immediately upon arriving. Luckily none of Gregor’s men had spotted it on the road; they’d gone through her things, but had apparently dismissed the ratty cloak as nothing significant. 

Her hold upon the knife’s handle loosens, and she slips from bed, knees colliding with the wooden floor. She gropes blindly beneath her bed for a moment, and then her hands encounter cloth. Pulling the cloak free, she crawls back into bed, pulling it over her body first and then covering it with her blankets so that it will not be easily spotted in the morning. And then she burrows beneath it, inhaling the scent of smoke and something more natural, the distinct, masculine smell of sweat, leather, and _him._

\---- 

The next day, as she is sitting in her chambers reading from one of the various books stuffed upon a half-collapsed shelf, Gregor comes to her. 

She glances up as the door opens, half-expecting Margo, only to gasp at the lumbering shape lingering there. The book slides from her fingers, landing upon the floor with a distinct thump. 

He is dressed in a semi-clean tunic and breeches, with heavy boots upon his feet and his sword strapped to his belt. His hair is cropped closer than it was on the journey, his beard neat, though his eyes are as cold and hard as ever. The door shuts behind him as he steps towards her, his steps as loud as her beating heart. She does not move, frozen in her place beside the window, watching his prowling movements. 

“I have not had much time to visit you. Miss me?” He asks with a grin, looming over her. She is forced to tilt her head back and gaze up at him so that she is not staring at his groin, and he knows it. A laugh rumbles forth from his throat, his rough, calloused fingers lifting to grasp her delicate chin in a too-tight grip. “But don’t worry. I’ve come bearing gifts.” 

Her heart stutters as he calls for Marak, who enters clutching a clumsily wrapped parcel in his hands. He leers at Sansa as he tosses it to her, his look suggesting that she does not wish to know what is inside. Her nimble fingers pluck at the wrapping regardless, knowing she has no choice, and from within she pulls an old gown in pale blue, followed by a ratty plain cloak free of embroidery. And just when she thought that her heart could sink no further… 

“Your wedding dress and maiden cloak,” Gregor informs her, grinning. “Might need to be altered a bit. My last wife was shorter than you. Still, it’ll do. And I haven’t the time nor the desire to have a silly pup sewn upon that cloak for you. It will do, as well.” 

“I am already married.” She _knows_ that he is aware of this, that this wedding is nothing more than a way to humiliate her, and yet still she tries. 

"And if the stories are correct in King’s Landing, that wedding was never consummated.” Gregor shakes his head, reaching to grasp one of her breasts roughly. She gasps and reels away, her arms lifting immediately to cover her chest, and his booming laughter fills the room, followed by Marak’s. “So you’re still a maiden, unless Littlefinger saw to that. Wouldn’t surprise me, but I don’t mind being second. Though it _would_ be nice to have you as a maid; I’ve never taken one quite as lovely and delicate as you before.” 

Her stomachs clenches painfully, and suddenly Sansa is reeling, her head spinning as she lurches from her chair to the nearest thing – the window. Her nails scrabble at it for a moment before she yanks it open and leans out, retching into the gardens below, which only amuses Gregor. When she is finished and sinks back into her chair, he is gone. The smell of him lingers, his presence pressing upon her, driving the air from her lungs, making her sob. 

For the first time, Sansa _truly_ comes to terms with the fact that she is going to die. 

\--- 

From then on, Gregor forces her to dine with him each night. 

She misses the comfort of her rooms, even though they are not truly her own. Eating with only Margo as company was leagues better than eating with the Mountain. He sits at the head of the table always, with Sansa seated to his left, Brenn and Marak on the opposite side of her. Sometimes other men come to dine with them; sometimes it is only the four of them. Regardless, Sansa learns to dread it. Gregor’s lingering looks, Marak’s suggestive comments, Brenn’s sharp gaze…it all rankles her, makes her pick at her food, pushing morsels across her plate. Eventually she begins to notice her gowns hanging looser on her form, but she cannot bring herself to dine with them. Fortunately Margo does not miss the looseness in her laces, and the blessed maid begins to sneak Sansa food hours after dinner has ended, when her stomach is calm again. 

On the eighth night of her stay, Gregor comes to her rooms late in the night. 

There is nothing but the looming shape of him and cloying terror, thick and heavy in her lungs. He smells it like a wolf smells fear upon its prey, and it encourages him. She knows this, but she cannot help being afraid. And though he does not touch her that night, he seems to take great pleasure in simply looming in the corners of her room, watching her shake. He slips out sometime long after the hour of the wolf, and Sansa does not sleep that night. 

On the ninth night, she witnesses Gregor kill a maid. 

They’re seated around the table with only Brenn for company, the room quiet aside from the harsh scrape of Gregor’s knife against his plate. A maid comes hurrying into the room from the kitchens, practically trembling in her slippers as she hastens to refill Gregor’s drained goblet. But she slips and the pitcher goes flying from her hands, a deafening crash that makes Sansa jump ringing out. 

There is a heartbeat where she notices several things at once; the girl’s face, blanched white. Brenn’s tight-lipped smile, grim and harsh. Gregor’s swift wince of pain as his hand moves upwards, as if to clutch at his head. But then he is flying from his chair, a massive wall of pure hatred, his hands flying out to wrap themselves around the maid’s slender throat. Sansa clutches the table hard as he lifts the girl, shaking her so hard that her neck snaps back and forth, her wheezing gasps of pain audible above Gregor’s snarling. 

“Clumsy _bitch_ ,” he spits, the rage in his eyes unlike any other as the girl struggles helplessly. Sansa stands up quickly, chair toppling, grabbing blindly for the knife upon the table, but a moment later Brenn slams her hand down against the wood, making her cry out as her knuckles smash harshly against the surface.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns her, but Sansa barely hears him because all she can hear is the cracking of bones as Gregor flings the maid against the nearest wall, the wet smear of blood left from the impact of the girl’s skull as she slides to the floor seared into Sansa’s mind. 

She does not remember how she gets to bed that night, only that she does, and that Gregor does not visit to leer at her. The next day she is pale and withdrawn from even Margo, seeing the scene over and over, her heart pounding like a caged animal in her chest. 

He visits her again after his brief respite, though this time he sits on the edge of the bed, his massive palms lingering near to her calves. Her breathing is ragged in the night, her palm wrapped around the handle of her pathetic bread knife under her pillow. She waits for him to touch her, for it is then that she will strike, then that she will have the courage. But he does not, and sometime later he leaves. He is becoming bolder, she knows, though she suspects he is still waiting for their sham of a wedding night for whatever reason. 

_He could have raped me by now,_ she thinks as she lays trembling beneath the old, battered white cloak she has grown so fond of. Somehow, the fact that he is waiting seems more like a curse than a blessing. Something tells her that he waits only to prolong her misery when the time actually comes. 

She spends days wondering when he will at last force her to ‘marry’ him, days spent in terror as she is forced to dine with him, to watch as he kills two more servants. How he even _has_ any left is a mystery to her, and she fears for the day when he will lose his temper with Margo or her sons. Both are lovely boys whom Sansa encounters often when she creeps down to the stables to visit the palfrey she rode from the Vale, strangely fond of the horse. While the children were wary at first, they swiftly grew fond of her, listening raptly to her stories as she sat combing her fingers through her mare’s mane. But she would always have to return too soon, not wishing for Gregor to see that she cares for anything in the Keep. _He would kill them just to wound me._

For a time, her tiny amount of luck continues to dangle by a thin thread. 

But on the twelfth day since her arrival, it runs out. 


	8. Sansa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's good luck concerning the Mountain runs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, let me just express how much I appreciate all of the support I’ve gotten for this story! All of your reviews, views, and favorites make me so happy. I’ve stated a few times this is my first fanfic I’ve ever dared to post, and you guys have just blown me away with the response, especially to the last chapter. I try my best to reply to each review whenever I have the time, but seriously, thank all of you so much! You’re all awesome! 
> 
> Okay. So. I was torn about this chapter. I wanted to make sure I’d written enough of Gregor to really convey how awful he is, and how Sansa has suffered…but I didn’t want to drag it on and on. Note that this story will be going on even beyond Sansa’s time with Gregor, so this in no way signals the end! 
> 
> Now, the warnings. There is abuse in this chapter, leading to some pretty bad wounds. There is death and gore as well; I wouldn’t say it’s anything terribly sickening or severe, but a pretty moderate amount. And there is attempted non-con, though I do not delve too far into details on that. I didn’t want the first truly intimate scenes that are described in detail to involve non-con. So, there you are.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I’m a little proud of it, a little nervous, and I hope you all like it.

  
_Marks of battle, they still feel raw_  
_A million pieces of me, on the floor_  
_I’m damaged good, for all to see_  
_Now who would ever wanna be with me?_  


 

Two days shy of a fortnight since their arrival, Sansa is taken through the garden and down a tiny, winding path that leads into the woods. She is wearing the too-small wedding dress, the cloak draped over her shoulders as Gregor drags her along with Brenn, Marak, and another of his men in tow. She catches glimpses of her own bruised wrists where the sleeves are too short, and the still slightly swollen knuckles on her right hand from Brenn smashing them against the table. Still, Sansa keeps her chin tilted high, though her innards feel as if they are aflame. Perhaps, if she makes a run for it, they will kill her now. Though she knows this wedding is not, _cannot be_ , official, she does not know how she will bring herself to say the words.

She is momentarily stunned to find that Gregor has led her to a weirwood. It is uncommon to find them this far south, she knows, and she feels the heavy stare of the blood red eyes as they stop before it. The air is crisp and cool against her palms, the chill of autumn seeping into her skin. Beneath her slippers are piles of maroon leaves; if she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine that she is home – or perhaps here beneath this tree with someone else, under different circumstances. She yearns for it so fiercely that she’s surprised when she opens her eyes to find that is it a daydream. 

Marak steps forward to stand before the tree as Gregor spins her around to face him, and she clenches her teeth so hard that it hurts.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Marak asks, his voice solemn, but there is a smile playing at his lips, a mockery that makes her furious. 

“Sansa, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" It is Brenn who steps forward to speak, uttering words that Sansa heard so often in the north, words that should mean the world but instead instill her with dread. 

“Gregor, of House Clegane.” She can feel his stare heavy upon the crown of her head, but she does not look up. “Who gives her?”

“Brenn, of House Crakehall.” The sharp-faced man struggles to hold in a laugh at Sansa’s affronted look. He has no right, _no right_ , to give her away – not even in this mummer’s farce of a wedding. 

“Lady Sansa,” Marak asks. “Do you take this man?”

At last, her eyes lift to meet Gregor’s. He smiles at her in a way that would make milk curdle, and she sucks in a deep breath, her voice laced with steel when she speaks. “No.”

There is a long moment of silence as fury passes over Gregor’s features, but a moment later it is gone. She does not break her gaze from his still, insolence written clearly upon her features. Let him kill her now, she thinks. Let him beat her until she is bloody and dead, and then she will never have to suffer again, never have to feel the keen sting of loss over and over. 

But he smiles. “No matter. I declare you my bride,” he says, and before Sansa can protest, he is ripping the cloak from her, lifting her over his broad shoulder, the blade of which digging into her gut sharply, making her gasp. The trip back to the Keep is too fast, and Gregor barks at servants to clear his path, his steps pounding up the stairs and down the hall towards her chambers. 

The door closes behind him with a deafening thump, and then she is being tossed upon the bed so roughly that she bounces and nearly flies off. But a moment later he is there, looming over her, grinning so broadly that it freezes Sansa in place. Every moment of her past seems to flash before her then; playing with her brothers in Winterfell, gossiping with Jeyne. Begging her father to let her marry Joffrey, and the trip to King’s Landing. Her first glimpse of the Hound. Lady’s death. The cruel look in Joffrey’s eyes, his promised mercy for her father after Sansa had doomed him. Ser Ilyn Payne, the flash of his sword, the spray of blood and the roll of her father’s head. Months spent in agony, with only cruel words and a yet a strange kindness from the Hound to hold her over. The emerald flames on the Blackwater, a blade and a song, a plea and a refusal. Joffrey, gasping for air, dying, and Petyr spiriting her away from King’s Landing. Her time spent as Alayne, with unexpected friends found in Randa and Mya, and her subsequent kidnapping by the very man before her now. So many choices, so many decisions that have led her to this very moment. 

“Come now, wife,” Gregor says as a tear rolls down Sansa’s cheek. “No fight? No cruel words? I hadn’t thought that you would make this easy for me.”

His voice grates at her, tugging at her skin just as he tugs at her dress, making her teeth clack together as he lowers himself over her. Her breaths come in gasps as she pushes at his chest, but he is too heavy, the weight of him crushing her, expelling air from her lungs. He flings her dress aside with one hand, and then there is the sound of her shift ripping, cold air biting at her crawling flesh. She is naked and he is there, touching her with harsh, rough hands, making her sob - 

_Be brave,_ a rasping voice in her head says as she cries out with horror and rage. _Hold on._

And in that moment, everything inside of Sansa that has been building shatters. 

It is like a storm, all lightening crackling and thunder roaring in her head. She feels her lips peel back into a snarl, the expression entirely foreign on her face as she makes a mad lunge towards the edge of the bed. Her bottom half is still trapped beneath his fumbling hands, but she flings her arm out, feeling the bones groan in protest as she reaches. Her fingers brush cool cartilage upon the near vanity - _her belt_. Her fist closes around one of the larger pieces from the time Gregor felled a doe on their travels, a portion of the deer’s leg that had been broken during the creatures fall. It’s end tapers off into a dangerous point, much sharper than her pathetic dinner knife, and the clacking of bones is sudden and loud as Sansa swings the makeshift weapon around. A guttural scream unlike any sound she has ever uttered slips from between her lips as she slashes at his face.

Gregor gives a roar of pain so sudden and loud that it seems to shake the entire Keep, reeling backwards on the bed. Some sluggish part of her mind registers that his breeches are unlaced, but a moment later her gaze is drawn by the hot splatter of blood that sprays from the Mountain, peppering her naked belly and thighs. He is clutching at his left eye, blood gushing from between his fingers, and when he at last peels his palm away, she sees that it has been sliced deeply, the lid dangling grotesquely, the eyeball itself seemingly felled in half. 

Before she can move or slash again, his fist sails through the air, colliding with her jaw. It gives an ominous crack as she collapses against the bed with a cry, and then he strikes her again, this time in the cheek. The bones grind together as stars dance behind her eyes, her ears ringing as she screams, but not loud enough to drown out his words.

“I’ll fucking kill you, and I’ll rape your corpse bloody for that, you stupid bitch.” His fists are pure agony, colliding with her ribs, her arms, her belly. “I’ll leave you flayed and broken on the doorstep of Riverrun for your damned Uncle to find, and then I’ll kill the bloody Blackfish himself. But first, I will make you suffer.”

His hands wind around her throat, squeezing, squeezing, his blood dripping upon her face as he leans over her. She gasps for air but finds none, black spots popping behind her vision, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Everything has come to this very moment; Sansa can practically feel the life leeching from her bones, her lungs burning, her throat afire. 

There is a scream from downstairs, a shattering, a thump…and then silence. 

Gregor pauses. His grip loosens a fraction as he tilts his head towards the door. Sansa is left reeling, sucking in as much air as his fingers will allow. There is a moment where the Mountain seems torn, and then he is hurdling off of the bed, cursing at the blood streaming from his eye as he reaches for his discarded belt, drawing his massive sword. “I am not done with you, she-bitch. Not by a longshot,” he promises. “If you try to run, it will be worse for you.”

Sansa does not think she could run if she tried. Her jaw and cheek are throbbing and swelling, she tastes coppery blood on her tongue, and her entire body is aching from the blows of his fists – her ribs most of all. She simply remains where she is, sprawled naked on the blankets, gulping down air and sobbing. Her belt of bones has fallen on the floor beside the bed, and dimly her gaze traces the shape of it as Gregor prowls towards the door, throwing it open.

There is a shape looming just beyond the threshold, too tall and broad to be Marak, and certainly too large to be Brenn. Head swimming, Sansa’s gaze slowly lifts to meet not one steely gray eye, but two, fully intact with one cradled in the burned half of a face. 

_I am dying. It is him I see as the life leaves me,_ she thinks. There is a storm in his eyes as his gaze flickers across her body, taking note of her nakedness, the blood, the bruising. She has never seen the look on his face before, not even in King’s Landing. It is a mixture of raw agony and burning hatred as he lifts his gaze to meet the eyes of his brother, noting the Mountain’s gruesome injury – and his partially unlaced breeches. 

“You’re alive,” Gregor says with a rumbling laugh. Only then does Sansa realize that she is not dying, she is not hallucinating, he is here. He is _here_. _He is here._

A sob escapes her, strangled and sudden. Gregor seems to revel in the sound; Sandor flinches from it. 

“That’s good,” the Mountain continues. “I want to be the one to kill you.”

Sandor Clegane says nothing. There are no words in that moment. There is only the sudden roar of unchecked loathing as he lunges forward, the air crackling with energy, swinging his massive sword. Gregor lifts his to parry, but Sandor is already preparing another swing. He is vicious, a whirlwind of steel and rage, blades meeting only to part again, over and over. The two massive men descend into the room, and belatedly Sansa realizes that perhaps she is in danger where she lays…but oh, each movement is agony, and she cannot bring herself to shift. 

Gregor is laughing, the sound manic and goading, making Sandor slash more viciously. Every ounce of the man’s strength bleeds into his sword as he hacks at his larger brother. It is clear even to Sansa that Sandor has the advantage; he is in full armor, and Gregor is only in breeches. But this does not seem to disturb Gregor, who begins to taunt Sandor in earnest. 

“Oh, how I jumped at the chance to take the Stark bitch when the Queen commanded it,” he is saying as he begins his own assault on Sandor, who lifts his sword to block each blow. Both men are sweating already, ropes of slick ebony hair falling in Sandor’s eyes. But even still he has both, when Gregor has only one; the other is still bleeding profusely, pumping rivulets of blood down Gregor’s massive chest. “I remember whispers at court. Whispers of how the cowardly Hound had looked at the redheaded slut, how he pined after his King’s betrothed. How he fled when he was scorned.”

Rumors, all of them. No one had known what had happened that night the Blackwater had burned, but how closely they had guessed. She sees Sandor’s jaw clench as a shifting of powers begins again, Sandor once more advancing. His footing is sure, his movements precise despite the sheer strength behind them. There is something dangerous in his eyes, something that screams ‘death’. 

Still, Gregor continues. “It was almost too easy to steal her away. To bring her here, to make her my wife, to fuck that pretty little cunt of hers. And when I have killed you, I’ll lay her across your corpse and fuck her again.” 

Sandor makes a noise that reminds Sansa of a cornered animal before it charges. Gregor’s sword glances off the armor of his side, slipping upwards, catching him beneath the arm where armor is weak. Sandor grunts as blood gushes from the wound, and Sansa hears a weak gasp fill the room that she belatedly realizes is her own. Gregor grins, sure that he is triumphant, and he swings again. Sandor lifts his sword to parry, but at the last moment Gregor shifts, and his blade slices through the armor of Sandor's leg, stabbing into flesh. Sandor hisses as he reels backwards, and blood mingles on the floor - his from his leg and arm, Gregor from his eye and various little cuts caused by Sandor's whirlwind of blades. They two regard each other for a moment, Gregor breathing like a blown horse, weaving unsteadily for a moment. Sansa wonders if the blood loss is finally muddling his senses. Suddenly Sandor lunges forward in a move too quick for Gregor to track. The larger man is expecting an assault from steel, but surprise flickers across his face when there is none. Instead, Sandor’s mailed fist lifts, one finger curling into the gore of Gregor’s eye, and the Mountain screams. And just as quickly Sandor’s prodding fingers find the sole remaining eye, reaching and gouging until it pops free with a noise that makes Sansa’s stomach clench. 

Gregor groans, his sword swinging wildly but blindly now. Sandor recedes, simply watching his brother’s flailing with hooded eyes, until finally he kicks out, boot colliding with Gregor’s wrist, sending the sword sailing to the opposite side of the room. Defenseless now, Gregor stills, and Sandor crouches so that he is level with the Mountain, but not terribly near. For a moment there is silence as Sandor, chest heaving, takes in the gasping form of the man who has made his life hell. 

“Never again will you take something precious from me,” he says, his voice low. “Never again, Gregor.”

He stands. His sword flashes. And in a spray of blood, the Mountain’s head is separated from his shoulders.

There is a long moment of silence, where it seems as if Sandor is not breathing. He stares down at Gregor’s body, still as stone. From her curled place on the bed, Sansa lets her eyes hungrily drink in the smooth side of his face, then the scarred, committing both to memory. She can die happy now that Gregor is gone, and more importantly, now that she has seen Sandor again. 

Perhaps she makes some noise, for Sandor’s gaze snaps up to her, and he crosses the room in a few short strides. 

“Little Bird,” he whispers brokenly, seeming scared to reach for her, scared that he will break her further. She smiles weakly at him, and it is all the encouragement he needs as he slides on the bed beside her. He reaches for the blankets but finds something else underneath, something dull ivory and stained. Astonishment crossed his face as he pulls his old cloak free, but then he wraps her in it gently, so gently. It aches still, her bones protesting as he pulls her onto his lap, cradling her against his broad chest. His head falls to plant a gentle kiss upon the crown of her head, though Sansa wonders if she imagines it. 

“I’m sorry,” he is saying, over and over, and she feels something wet drip onto her cheek as she tilts her face upwards and closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” she murmurs tiredly, nuzzling close despite the way her ribs protest. “You came for me.” 

“Of course, Little Bird. Of course I did.”

She sighs as she succumbs to the pressing darkness, though voices reach her in the place between sleep and waking.

_”Oh, Gods, Lady Sansa! Is she -?”_

_”No. Tell me, woman, does Clegane’s Keep still have a Maester? Take me to him. Now! Quickly!”_

There is a shifting, a gentle rocking, the clanking of armor and the smell of horses and sweat. An unfamiliar woman’s voice, another male that she dimly recognizes, and then a jumbled hush of voices that she cannot decipher. Suddenly, however, nothing else matters. She is surrounded by a plush softness, and she hums as she fully allows herself to let go.


	9. Sandor II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddd another one :D I doubt I’ll always be able to be this quick, since classes have started, but I’m enjoying it while I can! 
> 
> I'm torn on this chapter; really I'm not terribly happy with it. There was a lot of information I needed to get out in this one, and I feel like I didn't include enough of Sandor's thoughts. But now that I've got everything down that needs to be explained, we'll have much more time for character development and what not in the next chapters. 
> 
> Most of the notes will be at the end of the chapter; I have some stuff to say, but don’t wanna spoil anything!

  
_I'll see you in the future when we're older_  
_And we are full of stories to be told_  
_Cross my heart and hope to die_  
_I'll see you with your laughter lines_  
_Changes on our hands and on our faces,_  
_Memories are mapped out by the lines we'll trace_  


 

They arrive at Clegane’s Keep under the cover of nightfall.

Seeing the place again stirs a riot of emotions within Sandor, though his face remains expressionless as he rides Stranger towards the gates. It is more rundown than he remembers, though it had never been particularly cared for with Gregor skulking around, especially after his sister had died. She’d been the only one who had cared enough for the place to try to keep it beautiful, but of course beautiful things were not allowed to thrive in Clegane’s Keep. 

Brienne rides beside him, with Jaime slightly ahead, the trio alert as they approach the gates. There is laughter from atop them, and a single man guarding below, also giggling drunkenly. They’re a ragged bunch of sots, likely the men that Gregor has been travelling with. Their laughter tapers off as they notice the approach of horses, and the man on the ground calls, “Halt!” His words slur just slightly, and Sandor sneers beneath his hood, but does as commanded all the same. His wrists are tied to the pommel of his saddle, loosely and improperly, though it wouldn’t matter if they _were_ tied correctly; he can command Stranger with his legs alone, and the horse is as good a weapon as any. 

“You lost?” The shoddy guard asks as he approaches, his comrades leaning out from the guardhouse above. “Terrible place to turn up if you are.”

“Not lost,” Jaime says from before them, flashing a dazzling smile as he reaches with his good hand to pull his hood down. “I am Ser Jaime Lannister, and I come bearing a gift for Ser Gregor. A gift from my sister herself.”

“A gift from the Queen Regent?” The man asks, seeming to have lost all suspicion at the mention of Jaime’s name, just as Sandor had hoped. The Clegane’s are bannermen of the Lannisters, after all; it would not be wise for them to question one, especially upon Lannister soil. Even his brother’s foolish men seem to realize that. 

In response, Jaime steers Honor over to where Sandor is mounted, reaching up to yank the hood from his head. The moonlight catches on his scars, illuminating them and presumably making them appear all the more sickening. The man stops, reeling backwards a moment before frowning in recognition. 

“The Hound,” Jaime says, as if the man cannot see that himself. “Caught him hiding like a kicked dog, probably hoping he could lay low after his desertion and treason. My sister thought it would be a fitting punishment to hand him over to his brother.”

It’s difficult for Sandor to refrain from barking a harsh laugh, but somehow he does, simply staring at the drunken man, who grins stupidly. _Just wait until I get inside the gates,_ Sandor thinks bitterly. _You won’t be laughing then._

“Well I’ll be damned. We all thought the Hound was dead; seems he was just off licking his wounds, eh? And who’s that beside him?”

“Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Brienne pipes up, dipping her head in greeting. “Charged with assisting Ser Jaime with delivering the Hound.”

“Aye, suppose you would be,” the man agrees. “Fearsome brute, he is. Would certainly need a big…er, _woman_ , like you to help. ‘Specially since…” He trails off, his gaze searching out the stump of Jaime’s hand, which is hidden in his cloak. Jaime’s emerald eyes glimmer with cool malice, and realizing his mistake, the man flushes as he calls for his comrades to open the gates. 

_Fools,_ Sandor thinks as Stranger moves to follow Honor through. Once they are concealed in the shadows beneath the portcullis, he quietly slips his hands from the robes, unsheathing his dagger from within the folds of his cloak. The drunken ‘guard’ does not even realize what has happened; one moment he is standing stupidly with his back to them, and the next his throat is slit from ear to ear, with one of Sandor’s large palms cover his mouth to quiet his gurgles. At last the man quiets, and Sandor lets him slump to the ground before straightening upon Stranger, rearranging his hands before him again.

It swiftly becomes apparent that the men above have not noticed. They are laughing again as the gate clanks shut, tottering up on the walls. They make it far too easy for Brienne to notch the bow they’d stolen from the pathetic bandits days before, the twang of the string sounding twice. One of the men slumps over above; the second falls to the earth below with a wet thump. Sandor does not stop to look; he is already steering Stranger as quietly as he can towards the stables, Brienne and Jaime in tow. The three of them dismount, tying the horses sturdily and yet in a way that they can be released quickly, and then with one final shared look between Jaime and Sandor, they approach the Keep.

It is so very quiet, as if all of the energy has been leeched from the manor. The air is oppressive and thick, seeming to reek of fear. The door creeks as Sandor pushes it forward and he pauses, but there is no need; he can hear more drunken laughter coming from the kitchen, presumably where the rest of Gregor’s men wait. 

The three creep inside, but just as the door shuts behind Brienne, an older woman comes bustling from the kitchens. She stops abruptly at the sight of them, eyes widening and mouth opening as if to scream, but then Sandor holds up a hand and oddly, she stills. Her frightened brown eyes roam across his face, taking note of his scars as realization shines in her gaze.

“Please, miss,” Brienne whispers from behind him, her voice kind and pleading. “We’re not here to hurt you. We came for the girl.”

Sandor wants to curse her for a fool, but apparently this was the right thing to say. The maid’s mouth snaps shut, and she hurries forward, her hands coming together in a begging motion.

“Oh, please, hurry – she’s upstairs, with him –“

At that moment, a scream sounds from upstairs, and Sandor feels his blood run cold. His eyes meet Jaime’s briefly, and he sees understanding there in the glimmering green depths. “Go. Brienne and I will take care of the men in the dining room. Er, actually – “ he turns to the maid. “How many are there?”

“Six. Lord Gregor brought twelve all together. Left three on guard, sent three others on a hunting trip this morning, and – “

Her words fade into the background as Sandor goes vaulting up the stairs, his boots thumping heavily. He barrels down the hall, panic momentarily thundering through him as he realizes he does not know where the scream came from. Gregor’s rooms are down the right hall, and he is just about to turn that way when he hears the deep snarling of a voice that instills him with hatred down the left. He does not hesitate.

There is a screech from downstairs, that of a frightened maid he assumes, and a crash. Undoubtedly the dining room has descended into chaos now, but he can think of nothing but Sansa. Her name pounds through him with each beat of his heart, the rumble of his damned brother’s voice leading him to a door. He stops before it as silence stretches within, his palm reaching for the handle just as the door flies open abruptly. 

The first thing he sees is Sansa. He is distinctly aware of Gregor towering before him, of course, but his gaze is drawn to her like a moth to flame. Her hair is just as vivid red as he remembers – but the rest of her is red as well. His gaze slips across her form, taking note of her bloodied mouth, her swollen face, her naked body, the crimson upon her stomach and thighs. His stomach lurches painfully, so hard that he thinks he might vomit. Her eyes, so blue and usually shining with life, are glassy and far-away as they settle upon him. He is too late. Gregor has _hurt_ her, has broken her, and it’s all his fault – 

Gregor’s voice grinds out, and at last Sandor looks at the monster who has destroyed everything he has ever loved. Gregor’s words come to him slowly, muddled as if he is speaking from underwater. Sandor does not care what he is saying in that moment. Rage swells within him, a hot, burning loathing that makes his vision flash red. And before he can even think, he is lunging towards his damned brother with an accuracy and ferocity that surprises even himself. 

\---  
Afterwards, when Gregor is dead and Sansa is in the Maester’s clutches, Sandor relives the moment his brother’s head parted from his bloodied body over and over. And worse still, he also relives the moment he laid eyes upon Sansa, how broken and vulnerable she was, how he failed her. 

He has not left her side since bursting into the Maester’s rooms with her in his arms. The maid whom they’d first encountered in the hall and whom had also directed Sandor to the Maester is a frequent visitor, caring for the girl, helping change her bandages and bathe her. Sandor is always forced to stand outside of the room on these occasions, though he immediately returns to her bedside afterwards.

The Maester has been giving her Milk of the Poppy for her wounds; she has somewhere between six and eight broken ribs, the man estimates, a fractured bone in her cheek that leaves the side of her face immensely swollen, a bruised jaw (that was previously dislocated before Sandor assisted in repositioning it), two fractured knuckles (though the Maester says that those are older and already healing), and various bruising along the rest of her body. The rest, the Maester says, cannot be determined until she is awake. Seeing her bandaged and vulnerable makes something in Sandor feel vulnerable as well, as if his fate is tied to hers.

Jaime and Brienne make frequent visits. After clearing the Keep of Gregor’s men, though they still await the three-man hunting party’s return, they’ve taken to speaking with servants, who are reluctant at first but soon cooperative when they learn that Gregor is dead. 

During the third day of Sansa’s recovery period, Sandor is sitting in the plush armchair beside her bed, long legs stretched out, when a knock comes upon the door. Jaime pokes his head in, waving a plate of food tantalizingly, and Sandor nods in acceptance. 

He descends upon the plate of salted pork, pickled eggs, snap peppers, and honeyed bread eagerly. He’s taken all of his meals at Sansa’s bedside as well, and though he does not say it, he is endlessly grateful for Jaime and Brienne, both who make sure that he does not wither away.

Jaime sits in the chair opposite Sandor’s, his gaze raking across Sansa’s pale face. “No change?”

“No,” Sandor grunts around a bite of pork. “Though Maester Asten says that the dose he gave her this morning will be the last. She’ll wake soon.”

Jaime nods, leaning back in his chair. “That’s good. We’ve scoured the Keep lately, trying to make sure Gregor didn’t leave behind any unpleasant guests. We’ve found none, though we _did_ discover that the food stores are surprisingly excellent. Seems as if the servants at least tried to keep up with the place while Gregor was gone. The gardens aren’t anything impressive but they have a few things growing. A few pigs and chickens, too. A mule in the stables, plus the horses from Gregor’s men. No hounds in the kennel; I suspect the hunting party took them.”

Sandor nods, washing down his dinner with a skin of watered wine. It’s been by the bedside for days, with Sandor taking sparing sips from it. He does not wish to be drunk when Sansa awakens. “Gotta kill those men as soon as they arrive. Sansa won’t be able to travel for a while, so we’ll have to stay here for a bit. The longer people think my brother is still alive, the better. Can’t let those cunts ruin it.”

“Nothing to worry about. We’ll take care of them.” Jaime sighs, running his hands through his golden hair. “I suppose it’s as good a place as any to stay. The servants have taken to calling you “Lord Clegane” now, you know.”

Sandor scoffs. “Piss on that. I’ll be glad to be gone from here. Place will be crawling with Lannisters when they learn I’m here.”

“ _If_ they learn you’re here,” Jaime amends. “Still, you’re a kinder man than your brother was, and for that they are grateful. Leave the Maester and that Margo woman to take care of upkeep; they’ve been doing a good job of it so far, and they’ll likely love that they can repair the place without fearing that Gregor will smash their skulls for it.”

Sandor grunts in reply. It feels strange to be back in this keep after spending so much time away from it, and stranger still to think that it is _his_. He’ll be glad to let the servants do whatever they bloody well wish; they can paint the walls pink and waltz on the dinner table every night if they want. He only cares for Sansa in that moment, for keeping her safe and making sure that no further harm reaches her. And when she is well enough to travel…well, he is not sure what they will do then. Gregor’d said that the Queen let him have Sansa, and Sandor knows it is only a matter of time before she discovers that Sansa is alive and Gregor is not. As much as he’d like to wring that pretty golden neck of hers, to kill her for giving the Little Bird to Gregor, he knows that he cannot. He has to take Sansa somewhere safe, somewhere far away from the Lannisters. Winterfell has been taken by the bloody Boltons, so that is no longer an option. Perhaps to Riverrun, to her Uncle the Blackfish, but Bryndyn Tully will not like Sandor sniffing after her, and he cannot bare to leave her now…

As if feeling the intensity of his gaze, Sansa stirs. Jaime had been talking, though Sandor hadn’t realized it, but the man’s mouth snaps shut and his gaze flies to Sansa as well. Her brow is wrinkled as she shifts and then groans, likely feeling the sting of her ribs. There is a long moment, and then her breathing quickens, her eyes fly open wildly, and she gazes about the room as if looking for something. _For Gregor,_ Sandor realizes with a sickening jolt.

“Little Bird,” he rasps as he leans forward, drawing her attention to him. She flinches when she meets his eyes, so like Gregor’s, but after a moment her gaze softens and tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

“I wasn’t dreaming,” she says from between dry lips, her speech odd from the swelling in her jaw and cheek. “You’re really here.”

“Go get the Maester,” Sandor barks at Jaime, who hastens to do so. His gaze snaps back to Sansa then as he reaches to gently take her uninjured hand in his. “How are you feeling?” 

“Not well,” she answers truthfully, and he cannot help but laugh. The Sansa he’d known in King’s Landing would have attested to her good health even as she was being devoured by crocodiles. But he suppose that she has changed – just as he has. “Everything hurts.”

He squeezes her hand gently, and at that moment Maester Asten enters, huffing and puffing but moving swiftly despite his age. Jaime and Brienne are both on his heels, though they do not enter the room, perhaps for fear of crowding Sansa. Her blue eyes have settled on Jaime, he notices, her surprise evident, but she says nothing as the Maester begins gently prodding at her.

“Your ribs are quite painful still, I imagine?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Just so. They will be for some time – not much we can do for them, unfortunately. I’ll give you something for the pain – it won’t be as strong as Milk of the Poppy, but it will help. We can’t have you forming an addiction. Your jaw, how is it?”

Sandor watches her intently as she pauses, wiggling it back and forth, wincing. “Stiff. But it’s my cheek that hurts, really.”

“Yes, yes, I fear you have a bone fracture there. A small one, I think, but I would suggest only liquids and soft foods for a time. Your knuckles were broken, it seems, but healing swiftly enough. I’ve wrapped the hand so that you don’t move them too much; they need to be still to heal correctly. How long ago were they injured?”

“A few days, I think. I…can’t quite remember.” She furrows her brow, the last bit of her statement tapering almost to a question. The Maester looks suddenly worried. 

Sandor is still holding her hand, and his grip tightens. She glances at him swiftly, her lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. A silence falls over the room, with Sandor gazing at Sansa for some time. He hopes that his eyes convey the things he cannot say then; that he is sorry, that he is elated to see her, that he will never leave her again. Her smile forms fully, as if she knows.

“Is there pain in your head?” The Maester asks suddenly.

Sansa pauses for a long moment, and then nods her assent – though she stops a moment later, wincing. “Yes, quite a lot. On both sides of my temple.”

The Maester frowns, and Sandor cannot help himself. “What is it?” He barks, feeling his heart constrict. 

“Head wounds are…difficult. They can be nothing at all, or they can be fatal.” He leans over Sansa’s form, gently tracing a finger along her temple just above her fractured cheek. “I’d wager that he hit you here – perhaps at the same time he broke your cheek. The man had hands the size of dinner plates,” he grumbles darkly. “The brain is…well, a curious thing. Think of gelatin. Firm, but capable of moving. The force of Gregor’s fist likely caused the brain to bruise the opposite side of the skull, as well.”

“Will she be alright?” Sandor asks quietly, feeling Sansa squeeze his hand gently.

“Only time will tell,” answers Asten, and a brief silence settles until the Maester breaks it once more. “The positive is that there seems to be no internal bleeding. I worried for a while that your ribs might have punctured something, but you’re a lucky girl. And now...there are more private things that I would ask you, Lady Sansa.”

Jaime and Brienne take the hint quickly, shutting the door, their footsteps receding down the hall. Maester Asten glances towards Sandor, but his growl serves as a swift warning; he will not leave her side.

“It’s fine,” Sansa hastens to say. “He can stay.”

Maester Asten nods. “I examined most of your body, my lady, but I did not do so in places where you might not be comfortable with me looking while you were asleep,” he says. Sandor groans internally, sensing immediately where the Maester is going, but he does not move to leave. “I’ll be needing to ask you some things. Firstly, do you feel the need to urinate?”

“Yes,” Sansa says immediately. Reluctantly Sandor lifts his gaze to hers, surprised to find that she is not blushing as she stares at the Maester. Then again, he supposes she is no mere child any longer.

“Good. Do you think you’ll have trouble doing so?”

“No, I do not believe that I will.”

“Good, good. Another sign that nothing is wrong internally,” Asten says. “Are you having any…pain? There?” 

“No,” Sansa says, though Sandor wonders if she is lying. After what she has endured at the hands of Gregor…he feels rage build within him at the very thought.

“You’ve had your moonblood?” Asten asks.

“Yes. I’m six-and-ten now.”

“And will you be needing moon tea?”

And there it is. Maester Asten asks gently, and Sandor listens intently. He’d seen the blood on her thighs the night before, had known that she’d been at the mercy of Gregor for days…but a foolish, childish part of him still hopes that Gregor did not take from her what she would not give. 

At last, Sansa’s skin flushes pink. “No. Gregor did not…” 

“Are you sure?” The Maester presses. “Do not fear to tell the truth; no one here will judge you. Margo reported cleaning blood from your legs after you were brought here.” 

“It was Gregor’s blood – from his eye. He almost…raped me. But I wounded him at the last moment,” she says, and Sandor can hardly believe it. He is so proud of her in that moment as he remembers first looking up into Gregor’s ruined face, seeing the bloody remains of his eye. It was _her_ who’d done that. At one time, Sandor had thought Sansa to be weak, but how very wrong he had been. 

“I am a maiden still, besides.”

And suddenly Sandor’s thoughts screech to a halt, fury building beneath his skin. Perhaps she was being truthful about Gregor, but he does not see why she needs to _lie_ now. Is it because he is there? Or is she attempting to retain some of her fractured dignity? He releases her hand and she frowns but does not protest. 

“Very well,” the Maester says. “I’ll go and retrieve some medicine for you, and then I’ll have your maid bring up food. She’ll help you to the privy, as well.”

There is silence as the Maester bows out of the room, Sandor stewing in his chair. He feels Sansa’s gaze as it shifts towards him, but he cannot meet her gaze.

“Sandor?” Her voice is soft and tentative, questioning. Slowly his gaze slides to meet hers, and he cannot stop the awful words that slip from his tongue. 

“You didn’t have to lie. About being a maiden.”

She looks puzzled, which only irritates him further. “Lie? But I didn’t.”

“Do you take me for a fool, girl?” He growls, seeing her flinch and hating himself for it. “You were married to the Imp, stolen away by Littlefinger, and you expect me to think that you remain untouched?”

“Yes, because I am!” She exclaims hotly, a fire igniting in her eyes, one he has never seen before. He is startled into silence. “Tyrion never touched me. He gave me his word that he would not until I wanted him to, and I never did. And Petyr…” 

Here she trails off, something painful flickering in her gaze. Sandor feels like a right ass, but before he can stop her, she continues.

“Petyr never took my maidenhead. He planned to marry me to Harold Hardyng, and he said I needed it intact for that. But he…” She trails off, and with a sickening lurch, Sandor understands. He wishes he could rip Baelish apart himself – if the man were not already dead, Sandor might have hunted him down just to do so.

“Sansa,” he says quietly, reaching to take her hand again. “I’m sorry. I’m an ass. I believe you.” And he does. How she ever got the Imp and Littlefucker to leave her pure, he will never know. But he knows that she is not lying. 

She exhales raggedly, turning her head to rest her uninjured cheek against his hand. Sandor’s heart aches, as if he were a greenboy with his first woman. “Thank you,” is all she says.

When the door opens again, it is Brienne who comes shuffling in, looking clean and awkward. “Margo is occupied in the kitchens, so I offered to bring Lady Sansa her medicine and dinner, and to help her…” She trails off with a frown, though Sandor understands. He stands stiffly, his bones popping, and sighs. 

“I suppose that’s my que to step outside,” he murmurs, and Sansa smiles at him. He is suddenly aware that she has never met the hulking female warrior before. “Sansa, this is Brienne of Tarth. She’s about as exciting as pig shit, but you can trust her with your life.”

Brienne splutters indignantly as Sansa tries not to laugh. It takes everything within Sandor to turn away from her sparkling eyes, her radiant smile, her hair like flames – but he does. Maybe while Brienne tends to Sansa he can finally bathe. 

He supposes the least he can do it smell halfway bloody decent for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sansa's head wound is known as a side impact coup contrecoup injury. It's when a part of the head is struck so violently that the skull temporarily bends inwards, and strikes the brain. This sets the brain into motion, which causes it to collide with the opposite side of the skull, producing not only an injury where someone was actually struck, but an injury on the other side as well. Since in this time period they wouldn't have a way to describe it so eloquently, I wanted to give you guys the official terminology. You'll see more of the symptoms of this in the next chapter, which will be from Sansa's POV. :)


	10. Sansa V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fluff to hold you all over. :) It will be a bit of a slow burn; perhaps not as slow as other stories if this chapter is any indication, buuuut I figured poor Sansa needed some comforting from Sandor. 
> 
> Also, lots of Sansa POV the last few chapters, but it was necessary. Fortunately the next chapter will be from Jaime's POV - I do enjoy writing him so much, after all! 
> 
> As a heads up, it's 5:15 AM and I have to be up at 8:00. I couldn't sleep until I got these ideas out, but now I have to! If I missed any mistakes, I'll fix them later on. :)

  
_Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago_   
_Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword_   
_Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know_   
_I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door ___  


It is strange for Sansa to wake in a room that is not familiar to her, with Sandor Clegane at her side.

Throughout her talk with Maester Asten, her entire body aches, her head most of all. Both of her temples throb angrily, and if she moves her head too swiftly, Sansa finds herself dizzy and nearly retching. So she remains as still as she can, answering questions, with the feel of Sandor’s large, rough hand entwined with her own grounding her. 

Later, when it is just she and Brienne, there is an awkward silence. Though the she-warrior is nearly as large as Sandor and finely muscled beneath her tunic and breeches, she seems to not know what to do in social situations, hovering by the door uncertainly. But if there is one thing that Sansa excels at, it is being kind and proper. It is what her Lady Mother and Septa spent years teaching her, and through all of the hardships, she has not forgotten it. 

Smiling, she gestures to the little wooden table in the corner of the sparsely decorated room. “Perhaps you can place the food and medicine there, and then help me to the privy? I’ll eat afterwards.”

“Of course!” Brienne seems relieved to have been given some direction, surely uncomfortable finding herself caring for a stranger. Her hands are gentle and her grip strong when she helps Sansa from the bed, and a fortunate thing. Sansa reels almost immediately, gasping as a wave of dizziness sweeps over her, vision blurring as her innards threaten to expel themselves from her mouth. 

“My Lady!” Brienne exclaims, but Sansa swiftly holds up a hand to signal that she only needs a moment. Eventually the dizziness fades enough for Brienne to help maneuver her to the privy, though her head still pounds viciously and her footsteps are unsteady. 

After she has made water, she is breathing heavily when Brienne helps her into one of the wooden chairs by the shoddy table, her ribs protesting as fiercely as her head. The maid of Tarth watches her for a moment, chewing at her lip, and then she swipes an ivory blanket from the bed, gently tucking it around Sansa.

_No,_ Sansa realizes as the smell of ash reaches her. _Not a blanket. His cloak._

It has new bloodstains on it, but Sansa clutches it close all the same. “I…I was brought in naked, wasn’t I?” She asks. 

Brienne nods as she moves to uncork vials of medicine and uncovers a steaming bowl of soup. “Yes, my lady. Clegane brought you in wrapped in only that cloak. Margo dressed you in that gown later, after Maester Asten had seen to your wounds.”

Sansa nods, pausing to swallow the vials of medicine the Maester provided, before idly swirling the steaming soup in the bowl. She is hungry – ravenous, really – but she knows she must wait until it cools. “I see. And Margo…she’s alright? Her sons?”

“Yes, my lady. All well.”

“Good. And please, call me Sansa. May I call you Brienne?”

“Of course!” Brienne seems touchingly pleased by this request, her face lighting up. Despite the masculine features and the scar marring her cheek, Sansa notices that she has kind features, and striking blue eyes. “I mean…I would like that. Very much.”

Sansa smiles, her injured hand cradled close to her chest as the other pulls the bowl of soup closer. She lifts a spoonful of the broth, noticing that it smells deliciously of chicken and something a tad tangy. For a moment there is silence broken only by the sound of Sansa blowing upon the broth, and then she asks, “So how did you come to be in the company of Sandor and _Jaime Lannister_?”

“Oh, well, it’s really quite a long story,” Brienne says, lifting a hand to rub at her neck. As Sansa carefully spoons bites of soup into her mouth, attempting to ignore the way her jaw aches and her cheek protests, her head practically screaming. When Brienne mentions her mother, Sansa stills for a moment. Before, talk of Lady Catelyn’s determination to rescue her daughter might have brought Sansa to tears. But now…well, Sansa feels _different_. She has spent so much time changing who she is for the sake of survival, and though thoughts of her family still ache, they no longer produce tears. 

Even more startling is Brienne’s tales of Jaime, from his imprisonment at the hands of Catelyn Stark to his decision to leave King’s Landing – and his sister – to help Brienne with her search. “And Arya?” Sansa can’t help but ask, foolish hope swelling behind her growing breasts. “Have you heard word of her whereabouts?”

“Well, no,” Brienne admits, “but Clegane told us on the way here that he traveled with her for a brief time, before a few of his brother’s men injured him. She left him to die beside the Trident, and that was the last he – or anyone else – saw of her.”

_Arya._ Her fierce sister. To hear that she has been spotted since her escape from King’s Landing makes Sansa smile. But then something else Brienne says occurs to her, and it fades. “Speaking of Gregor’s men…did you kill all of them? There were twelve, I think, if I remember correctly – “

“Don’t fret, my la—Sansa. Margo told us of their numbers upon our arrival. Three are away on a hunting party…we killed three at the gate, and five in the dining halls.”

“But that’s only eleven,” Sansa says, feeling her stomach curl with dread.

“We, uh, scoured the rest of the house and premises. We couldn’t find any others, and we’re certain no one escaped from the dining hall. Jaime thinks that a fourth man joined the hunting party at the last moment, though. Apparently the stables are missing an additional horse, and we know for certain that it wasn’t taken after we seized the Keep. Please don’t fret; we’re safe here, for a while.”

_Safe._ An innocent choice of wording, but one that makes Sansa brood over her soup quietly. Surely Brienne truly does believe that they are safe, with the Kingslayer and the Hound as their guardians, and her own skills thrown into the mix. But _safe_ is a word that Sansa has not been familiar with in some time. Perhaps the last time she truly was secure was when she was a child in Winterfell, before traveling to King’s Landing. Or perhaps even after that – when her father was alive. Everything had deteriorated after his death; everything had changed. 

She’d _thought_ she’d been safe in the Vale for a while, with Petyr. Thoughts of him still made feelings of conflicted confusion rise within her. There were moments at the end of her time spent with him that she hated him – hated his touch, his lingering gaze, his quiet demands. But there had been a time before that when she had…well, not trusted him, because truly one could never trust Petyr Baelish…but a time when she had known that he would be there, whenever she needed him. 

Sometimes she misses him; not in the way that a woman missed a lover, nor in the way that a child missed a father, but in the way that a desperate drowning man missed land. She remembered him fondly at times; the way he would whisper bold, immortal tales of their dinner companions, making her stifle her laughs in her napkin. How he would praise her quick wit when she would find purposely placed errors in his financial records. How he would keep a careful eye on her to prevent unwanted advances towards his ‘bastard daughter’, but would never prevent her from enjoying long days with Mya and Randa.

It is a shame, then, that he'd protected her from everyone but himself. Sansa feels her lips curl into a sad smile, and Brienne shoots her a puzzled look, but blessedly does not ask questions. 

“Would you like me to help you back to the bed?” Brienne asks gently after a while, but Sansa shakes her head. She is tired physically, her headache relentless and each breath causing her ribs to sting sharply, but she cannot bare to spend another moment in the bed after having rested for so long. 

“No, thank you. If you don’t mind, though, perhaps I could enjoy some time alone?” The weight of the last few days lays heavy upon her shoulders; the Milk of the Poppy had given her three blessed days of oblivion, but her mind is sharpening despite the ache of her brain, and she is far from fit company with memories of Gregor skulking about. 

“Of course.” Brienne hastens to stand, perhaps too quickly; Sansa is suddenly struck by the impression that perhaps the woman has not always been treated kindly, and she feels a pang of sympathy as Brienne bustles around the room, offering Sansa more blankets and ensuring that she is comfortable. 

“But Brienne,” she says as the woman reaches the door, and Brienne pauses, turning her earnest gaze upon Sansa. “I _have_ enjoyed speaking with you. Later, when I’m feeling better, maybe you’d like to join me for dinner?”

A smile graces Brienne’s features then, genuine and bright. It makes her look lovely, Sansa thinks. “I would like that very much.”

When the door closes behind Brienne, Sansa is left curled in her chair by the window, piled in blankets, a cloak, and warmth. For some time she remains there, gazing out between the curtains. She has a lovely view of the garden, and though it is nothing impressive, she wonders if maybe she will be able to spend some time attempting to nurture it before they depart. 

But thoughts of departure only bring worry, for Sansa is not sure where they will go. As much as she longs to see Winterfell again, she knows that is it impossible with things as they are. _No matter what, I always seem to be running,_ she thinks dejectedly, head lolling back against the chair, the pounding of her temples seemingly in sync with the beat of her heart.

And though she’d insisted that she did not wish to lie down, she soon dozes off, troubled by her dreams. They start out innocently enough, with her navigating the warmly lit halls of a manor, laughing gleefully. But as the dream progresses the corners gradually begin to darken, shadows seeping from the walls, coiling like snakes around her ankles, slowing her. She is no longer laughing but instead glancing over her shoulder fearfully, and when she turns the next corner, there is nothing but darkness and a single cruel gray eye, the other dangling grotesquely from the socket, the shape of the Mountain rising higher and higher before her, until he towers over her like a _true_ mountain. She can feel his hands on her skin, harsh, demanding, the sound of her bones snapping beneath his fists cracking like thunder around her. And though she draws in a breath to scream there is no air, no light, nothing but his mocking laughter, _nothing_ \- 

“Sansa.”

She wakes with a gasp, blankets sliding from her lap to land in a heap on the floor. Her body jerks forward before she goes rigid, a cry of pain slipping from her lips as all of her bones seem to rebel, burning as if they are aflame.

“Easy.” Hands reach for her, steadying her, but Sansa jerks away despite the pain, reeling. He is _here_ again, she only dreamed that he was dead, and now he’s going to make good on all the vile things he promised her – 

_”Little Bird_. It’s me.”

Finally she pauses, her panicked mind stuttering to a halt. It is not the Mountain, but Sandor, his hair long and falling into his eyes as he gazes at her with concern, his arms extended towards her. The breath whooshes from her chest, followed by a sob. She does not need to tell him what she needs; he must see it in her gaze, because suddenly she’s being lifted so gently, until she’s curled upon his lap, his tunic bunched in her fists. “I dreamt of him,” she says softly, her words muffled by the broad expanse of his chest, but he hears her and nods.

“I know. Maester Asten was coming to check on you. Told him I’d do it instead. Heard you thrashing around in here.”

“How long have I been asleep? I promised Brienne I’d have dinner with her. I hope I haven’t missed it.”

“You haven’t. Still have a few more hours before dinner.” 

A silence falls over the two then, and as Sansa’s racing heart begins to slow, she can’t help but reflect on how very different this man is to the one that she last saw in King’s Landing. He is quieter, kinder – or perhaps that’s only with her. There is still a ruggedness to him, a dangerous edge that she thinks he’ll never lose…but no longer is she afraid of him. In King’s Landing, he reeked of wine and sweat and anger, constantly snapping, never content. But now, as he holds her, it is if he has suddenly found his purpose. She sighs and simply breathes in the scent of him, clean soap and an earthier, more masculine smell that she favors.

“You’re different.” The words are half-mumbled, falling from her lips like honey. She’s started to drift off again, she realizes, and it makes her bold. He stiffens briefly beneath her but a moment later he’s relaxing, the scruff of his beard brushing against her forehead as he leans down to rest his chin against her.

“Spent a long time doing a lot of thinking,” he admits. “And not nearly as much drinking or killing as I was used to.”

She hums, feeling her eyes drift closed. “You’ll have to tell me more about where you went, sometime. Did you miss it? The drinking, and the killing?”

“For a while.” He’s silent then, the rumble of his voice fading. She is nearly asleep when he speaks again, softer this time – or maybe it’s only because she’s on the brink of sleep. “But there are things that are worth more to me.”


	11. Jaime II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up, if you guys have not read the few chapters that were posted from The Winds of Winter and do not wish to have anything from those chapters spoiled for you, please skip over the end notes. That will be where I explain a few things from this chapter, but I didn’t want to accidentally spoil anything for anyone! If you do not read the end notes, don’t worry, you won’t be missing out on anything crazy. Since this story is an AU anyways, you won’t even know what I “spoiled” until you read the chapters :P 
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for your views and reviews. They mean so much to me, and it makes me so happy to see that you guys are still enjoying the story!

  
_And I hurt so bad, that I search my skin_   
_For the entry point, where love went in_   
_And ricocheted and bounced around_   
_And left a hole when I walked out_   


If there was one thing Jaime Lannister hadn’t expected to have, it was time.

It’s almost laughable, really, how much of it he has now that they’re holed up in Clegane’s Keep until Sansa recovers. Even after checking the stores twice, securing the gate, counting the livestock, rifling through the abandoned barracks to count weapons, and heckling Brienne enough to drive the poor girl up the wall, he still has only wasted the better part of two days.

He is anxious for the hunting party to return, simply so that he can sleep better at night knowing that they will not be discovered too quickly. They need a plan first, after all; they can’t simply go fleeing off into the wilderness unprepared, though Jaime is beginning to wonder if that’s exactly what Clegane has planned. 

After Sansa awakens, Jaime makes himself scarce. He is not sure how she feels about him, and would not be surprised if she despises him for his Lannister name, and for the way he wounded her father’s men on the streets of King’s Landing so long ago. Not wishing to distress her further when her health is already dubious at best, he contents himself with slowly brushing down Honor, waving away the young stable lad’s attempts to help him.

Eventually, when Honor is becoming irritated by Jaime’s coddling, he returns to the Keep, slinking into the kitchens in search of a wineskin. There is a young serving girl present, humming to herself as she chops mushrooms and potatoes, though she freezes like a doe in an open field when she turns and sees Jaime standing there. He flashes her a smile, half placating and all charm.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says, though he supposes it’s impossible not to when she’s spent the majority of her life in Gregor’s service. The beast was notorious for slaughtering servants – and anyone else who got in his way, for that matter. “Just came to see if I could thieve a skin of wine, perhaps?”

“Y-yes m’lord,” she stammers, dropping what she’s doing in her haste to serve him. He quirks a golden brow at her as her paring knife goes clattering down upon the cutting board, and she blushes a red so alarming that Jaime wonders if she’s going to drop dead before him. “We don’t have nothin’ good – nothin’ like you’re used to at King’s Landing, I’m sure. But we have plenty of strongwine if it pleases you, m’lord.”

Suddenly feeling fiendish, Jaime cannot help himself. He’s had maids fawning over him for as long as he can remember, after all, and a small, twisted, self-conscious part of him rejoices in the fact that his missing hand has not changed this. “Well not many things please me,” he drawls, his gaze sliding across what he can see of her figure beneath her plain brown dress, “but wine is certainly _one_ of those things.”

She lets out a squeak that makes him laugh, emerald eyes glinting mischievously as he reaches to take the wineskin clutched in her pale hands. Then, with a final wink aimed in her stammering direction, he ducks out of the kitchens and into the dining hall, plopping down in a chair before the crackling fire. For some time he sits there by himself, nursing his wineskin, reveling in the warmth and simplicity that he has found here. A part of Jaime is still wounded and raw after his flight from King’s Landing, the part of him that saw how twisted his sister was becoming, the malice practically oozing from her after the death of Joffrey and rumors of Myrcella’s maiming injuries in Dorne. She had swiftly become someone that Jaime did not recognize, and her cruel intent to allow Sansa to suffer at the hands of Gregor Clegane was proof of her increasing insanity. 

Still, it hurts to think of her. She was so different in the days before she became Queen, when she and Jaime spent endless days and long nights at Casterly Rock together. It is strange to see their bond, forged by their twin status and an intricate relationship, deteriorating. There is something inside Jaime that very nearly _hates_ her, he realizes with a start, a bitter bud hidden deep within him that threatens to blossom with each day he spends away from her.

The sound of heavy footsteps makes him glance up, watching as Sandor comes prowling into the room. The man pauses, his steely eyes looking from Jaime’s face to the wineskin clutched in his hands and back again. The unmarred side of his lips begin to twitch, as if he is near to laughing.

“And what’s so funny?” Jaime demands as Sandor stalks forward, dropping heavily into the chair across from Jaime.

“You. Half-drunk before dinner has even been served.”

“I never thought I’d have to suffer a lecture about uncouth drinking habits from _you_ , Clegane. Haven’t you spent half of your life piss-drunk?”

“Suppose I have.”

“Not anymore, though,” Jaime muses. “You’ve changed.”

Sandor shrugs, reaching for the wineskin as if to prove Jaime wrong. Still, he only takes one draw before passing it back. “We all have, I think.”

True enough, Jaime supposes. There is a brief silence, and then he asks, “How is Lady Sansa?”

He does not miss how Sandor’s expression darkens for a moment. “Sleeping. She suffers from night terrors.”

“Well who wouldn’t, after what she’s endured?”

“The Maester wants her woken every few hours due to her head, but she’ll be having dinner with Brienne tonight, so she can sleep until then.” He pauses broodingly, his gaze sliding towards the fire. “I wish that I could bring him back, just so I could kill him again and again for what he did to her. He died too swiftly. He should have suffered, like she suffered.” 

Jaime knows that Gregor has always been a sore spot for Sandor; his hatred for his brother had been evident from the first day Jaime had met Sandor, so long ago at Casterly Rock. And he can see why, with the suspicious nature of the Clegane’s parent’s deaths. He remembers his lord father mentioning a sister, as well, though he has never heard Sandor mention her. Jaime is smart enough not to ask. 

“At least he cannot hurt her anymore,” Jaime says softly, adding a quiet, “or anyone else.”

Sandor’s gray eyes flicker upwards, meeting Jaime’s gaze. “That will have to be good enough.”

The air in the room is heavy – heavier even than before, when Jaime was stewing in his own battered emotions. Sighing, he tips his head back, staring up at the cobwebs that crisscross the ceiling. “Still no thoughts on where we’ll go?”

“No. Do you have anything to bloody suggest?”

“When Cersei learns that Sansa is still alive and that you rescued her, she’ll never rest until the two of you are dead. And if she learns that _I’m_ with you, well…” Jaime shrugged, feeling his gut clench. “Unless Stannis decides to crawl out of hiding and put an end to this war, nowhere in Westeros will truly be safe.”

“Are you suggesting that we go find Stannis-bloody-Baratheon?” 

“Gods, no. Can you imagine? He’d have my head for sure, probably yours as well, and he’d stuff Brienne in a dress, the poor thing.” Perhaps the wine is getting to him, for the image of Brienne in the garish pink dress she’d been forced to wear for her tussle with the bear comes to him, and his lips stretch into a grin. He teases her about it even now – though perhaps less frequently than before due to the force of her disgruntled punches, which leave his shoulders numb for hours afterwards.

Sandor is quiet for a long time, simply gazing into the fire as the clash of pots and pans from the busying kitchen echoes through the hall. When he speaks again, Jaime almost misses it, the deep timbre of his voice nearly lost in the swearing from the cook. “So we have to leave Westeros, then.”

Jaime frowns. “Well, I didn’t say _that_ -“

“You said nowhere in Westeros is safe. So we leave. Lay low somewhere across the seas for a while, until the Stark bannermen finally grow some sodding balls and take back Winterfell from the Bolton’s, or until Stannis does it for them. Or until someone else takes the crown from your bitch of a sister.”

Before, the words would have enraged Jaime. Now, he only sighs and lifts a hand to pinch the skin between his eyes. “So where would you even suggest going? Braavos and Pentos are too obvious of choices; besides, I’m fairly certain Varys has spies in both places. Probably Volantis, too.” 

“I don’t know.” Sandor sounds…tired, Jaime notes. “I’d have to discuss it with Sansa, anyways. I won’t take her if she doesn’t want to go. If she consents, and we figure out somewhere, I can book passage for the two of us. I still have enough coin –“

“The _two_ of you?” Jaime asks with a quirk of his brow, feeling strangely betrayed. It’s not as if the two of them are _friends_ , but Jaime has risked everything by helping Sandor Clegane find Sansa Stark. And so, too, has Brienne. “I assume we’d be coming with you.”

Genuine surprise shows on Sandor’s face as he glances up. “You won’t be running back to your bloody sister with your tail between your legs?”

“Eventually she’ll find out that I had a hand – “ Here he stops, chortling as he lifts the stump of his right arm, making Sandor scowl. “ – in Sansa’s escape. Brother or no, she does not treat those who betray her kindly. No, you won’t be getting rid of me so easily. And Brienne…well, I can’t speak for her. I know she wishes to continue searching for Arya. But perhaps Essos is just the place to do so.”

“You’d really walk away from it all?” Sandor asks, sneering in a way that reminds Jaime of the Hound – a man supposedly buried. “From the gold, the prestigious Lannister name, the finery you’ve existed in your entire life? From Cersei?”

It’s as if Sandor has reached out and plucked at a festering wound, ripping off the scab, making Jaime’s eyes flutter closed – as if his lids could deflect the flurry of pain. Leaving his sister to tramp around Westeros is one thing; leaving her to go across the seas to Essos so that he may assist in harboring Sansa…well, that’s something else entirely. He cannot return if he does this. And strangely, instead of being afraid, he is relieved. 

“You said that we all have changed,” Jaime says, his sentence broken by his pausing to take a pull of wine. “That applies to my sister moreso than any of us. She is no longer the person I wish to fight for. And the Lannister name means little these days, with my father dead and Cersei tarnishing it with her cruelty.”

Sandor looks at him for a very long time, making Jaime feel as if the man can see beneath the shiny exterior he’s always hidden behind. Golden hair, blazing emerald eyes, a distinguished name and an ego large enough to fill the Trident. These are the things that made Jaime Lannister, but now, he only wonders if he’s wasted so much precious time on _all of the wrong things_. 

Finally, Sandor looks away, dipping his chin in acknowledgement. “Alright then. You can come. But if you get in my way, or cause any trouble, or run that smart fucking mouth of yours too much, I’ll take my sword and personally shove it _so far_ up your - ” 

“My, my, Clegane. I hope you don’t speak to Lady Sansa in such a lewd way,” Jaime says, feigning righteous indignation. A moment later his lips curl into a devious smile, and he adds, “or perhaps you do, and she likes it?”

Clegane’s dagger misses his head by a fraction, and Jaime’s laughter can be heard throughout the halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the ‘spoiler’ I spoke of was Stannis. His arc is quite a bit different in the show, where he is presumably killed by the Boltons. For those who may not remember ADWD, Bolton DID brag that he’d killed Stannis, but it was all a bunch of bs basically. The new chapters of TWOW revealed that Stannis is very much alive, biding him time until he continues his march for the throne, with Shireen alive as well and Theon Greyjoy as Stannis’ prisoner. This will be the route we’re taking for this fic!


	12. Sandor III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddd another one for you guys! Featuring a jealous Sandor. ;)

  
_When my time comes around_  
 _Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth_   
_No grave can hold my body down_  
 _I'll crawl home to her_  


Days pass.

Sansa’s body still struggles to recover, leaving her pale and shaking after the smallest of exertions. Sandor takes care to watch her closely, worrying internally even as he manages to keep a calm façade for her sake. And even despite her tired eyes, pale complexion, and trembling limbs, she is lovely. There is a fire within her, a determined strength that shines through her eyes. He feels awed to see it. 

While her bruises and lacerations heal, her internal injuries are much slower to do so. Her injured hand remains wrapped, her lungs causing her the utmost pain, and her head, though no longer still throbbing she claims, sometimes leaves her dizzy and disoriented. She tries to insist that she is fine, that she is doing better, but Sandor knows better. He spends a large amount of time by her side, helping her throughout the Keep since she cannot manage very far on her own without her ribs winding her, and he can see how exhausted she is at the end of each day. And even worse are the times when he wakes in the middle of the night to hear her screams. He purposely took a room just down the hall from her own - which the Maester allowed her to move back into - for these very occasions. He’d bolt into her room, whisper soothing words to her, running his fingers through her hair to calm her trembling and crying. 

“Sometimes I wake up and I see him, waiting in the corners, leering at me from the darkness like he used to,” she’d whispered to him once. “And sometimes I feel his hands on my throat, my belly, my thighs…” A rage unlike any Sandor had ever experienced had coursed through him, but he’d suppressed it for her sake, simply comforting her until she fell back asleep. And then he would slip from her room as always, pointedly ignoring his traitorous body as it tempted him to stay, to curl around her and kiss away whatever pain she felt. _She does not want you in that way; how dare you even think of such a thing while she suffers,_ he admonishes himself, always heavy with shame as he slides back into his own bed, fighting his desire. _You are here to comfort her, to protect her. Nothing more._

\---

A week since Sansa’s awakening passes in the blink of an eye. The air is crisp and cool as Sandor stands just outside of the Keep, watching as Sansa kneels in the gardens, dirt smudged across her nose, busy clumsily tending to the plants with one hand. Brienne crouches beside her, looking attentive but even clumsier if possible as the two laugh and huddle in their cloaks. Sandor doesn’t see the bloody point in bothering with the garden if it’s autumn with only winter to follow, but he supposes that he knows nothing about gardening, anyways, and that he should mind his own business.

Despite her injuries, Sansa has been steadily breathing life into Clegane’s Keep. It started mere days after she woke, when boredom and sheer restlessness drove her to begin mending the curtains in her room – and then the pillows, the blankets, and the tapestries. Then she’d somehow acquired paint from Margo, and from there, everything had been fair game. 

Now, Sandor never knew which room he would find her in. He would stoop into one to find her curled in a chair, painting over a chipped table or sewing the rips in the drapery. Often times she would be humming to herself, with Margo usually not far, the maid happily content to allow Sansa to bring the Keep back from it’s sad state. 

There were some things Sansa could not do, however, like mending broken furniture, fixing holes in doors and walls, and repairing the worst of Gregor’s damage. But lo and behold, one day Sandor had prowled through the keep to find Margo’s bloody sons eagerly working under Sansa’s direction, with even a few of the older male servants stepping in to help. She had the whole damn keep under her thumb already, that much he could see. They did not have the air of those commanded to do something when they helped her, but rather seemed to _want_ to help Sansa, likely so they could see that bleeding brilliant smile of hers and hear her gentle thanks.

And who would be able to resist taking to her, he thinks, watching as she laughs with Brienne, her giggles tapering off only when her ribs protest. Though she is no longer the chirping bird from King’s Landing, she is still a lady through and through. She’s certainly won Brienne over to her side swiftly enough, the two becoming fast friends, something that Sandor is grateful for. He will never allow Sansa to suffer again, but it certainly helps for her to have befriended the fierce Maid of Tarth. 

Footsteps sound, and Sandor glances up to see Jaime approaching. The two of them stand side-by-side in silence for some time, simply watching the girls as Margo appears with a basket of warm bread and fruit for them, something which Sansa seems endlessly thankful for. 

“I’m beginning to worry,” Jaime says in a low voice. “that the men have not returned from the hunting trip yet. What animal takes so bloody long to hunt?”

“Maybe not an animal,” Sandor rasps without thinking. “Maybe they went hunting to sate their bloodlust. They’d have to travel out of Lannister lands to do it.”

Jaime looks surprised, one golden eyebrow twitching upwards. “Well…I hadn’t thought of that.”

Sandor shrugs. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Gregor didn’t keep kind men in his company.” Rather it had seemed as if his monstrous brother had only ever found the vilest, most lecherous creatures to take into his service. “They’ll be back. They’d have no way of knowing what we’ve done without at least approaching the gates. And we’ll kill the lot of them when they do.”

There’s no more time to discuss it, for Sansa suddenly glances up and calls, “Sandor! Jaime! Come join us.”

He doesn’t miss the surprise in Jaime’s eyes. The man still seems stunned that Sansa had forgiven him after a few days of wariness. Smirking, Sandor starts towards the women, hearing Jaime fall into step beside him. 

They spend several hours together, the four of them, snacking upon the meal Margo brought while Sansa continues to determinedly pull weeds away from plants that have struggled to grow. At one point she looks up at him, beaming, and Sandor cannot resist leaning forward to gently wipe the smudge of dirt from her nose. Her cheeks heat when he pulls away to recline on his elbows, her eyes shining with something he cannot quite identify as she watches him.

Their exchange does not go unmissed by Jaime, who exclaims, “Ah, how sweet!”, and Brienne looks terribly confused when Sandor’s boot lashes out to jam into the lion’s side. 

\--- 

They’re gathered at the dinner table that night, eating spiced meat and sipping wine, their spirits high, when Maester Asten comes hurrying into the room, breathing heavily. 

“I’ve had – had a raven,” he wheezes, huffing and puffing as he holds out a letter to Sandor, who rises swiftly to take it. “From – from King’s Landing.”

The table swiftly falls to silence. Sandor can feel Sansa’s gaze on him as he rips open the letter from the Queen, addressed to Gregor. Her fear is thick and heavy in the air as he reads aloud. “I require a report on your progress regarding the task that you were sent to achieve.” Nothing more. It is short but ominous, and Sandor feels his anger rising as he crumbles the letter in his fist. How long can an answer be delayed before she becomes suspicious? He cannot write to her as Gregor; he does not know how they corresponded before, or even how his brother would speak to the Queen Regent.

“You could have Maester Asten reply,” Jaime says quietly. “But she would become suspicious of that.”

He says nothing, unable to truly think as he stands with his back to the table. His old leg injury twinges as a reminder of his weakness, a dull throb beginning in his head. 

“Sandor?” It is Sansa’s voice, soft and imploring, begging him to say _something_. He turns to face her, seeing a confusing mixture of fear and comfort in her eyes as she stands to edge towards him. But at that moment the elder of Margo’s sons, Antony, comes bursting into the room.

“A rider,” he squeaks. “On the horizon, approaching the gates.”

All seven hells are breaking loose at once, Sandor thinks as he reaches for his sword. “Hide her,” he barks at Margo, who has crept into the room from the kitchens to see what all the commotion is about. He stays only long enough to see Margo nod as she moves towards Sansa, and then he is barreling from the Keep, Brienne and Jaime hot on his heels. 

He reaches the guard tower first, snatching a bow from where it’s been propped against the wall. He is better with a sword, but good enough with a bow. He stalks out onto the walls, notching an arrow as the shape of a horse draws nearer and nearer. Only one, as Antony reported. Perhaps the hunting party had sent one of their men to scout ahead…

Closer and closer the mount draws, until the rider is just in range of the bow. Sandor aims, pulling the string taut, his breaths coming slow and evenly. And just as he goes to release the arrow, Brienne yells, “Wait!”

He curses, snatching upwards at the last moment. The arrow goes sailing through the air, narrowly missing the figure. The horse comes to a swift halt, it’s screech of indignation ringing. It is the ugliest horse he has ever seen in his life, Sandor thinks, not at all fit for a hunt with its swayed back. But then he is whirling on Brienne, his lips peeling into a snarl.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He barks, but Brienne is not listening. She’s already started to raise the gate, and Sandor lunges for her, the two of them smashing into the wall.

“Clegane!” Jaime yells from somewhere behind him, but Brienne is yelling louder, her face twisted angrily.

“It’s _Pod_!”

“What the _fuck_ is a Pod?” 

“Podrick Payne!” Without another word she’s gone, thundering down the stairs towards the yard, which the rider has warily ridden into to. Sandor is bewildered, breathing hard, his gaze boring into Jaime’s, who shrugs.

“He was my brother’s squire, for a while. Before Brienne and I joined, the two of them traveled together in her search for Sansa, but I believe they were separated along the way. I suppose he’s been following us for some time now.” 

Practically spitting with anger, Sandor thumps down to the yard, where Brienne is laughing and embracing a tall boy with dark hair. 

“ – thought I’d never see you again after we were separated,” the wench is saying. “How did you find me?’

“I’ve been tracking you for a while, my lady. My horse had trouble keeping up, s’ why it took me so long to reach you, but here I am.”

“I can’t believe you still have that horse,” Brienne says, laughing, just as Sandor reaches the two. Before he can stop to think he reaches out, grabbing the boy by the tunic, yanking him off his feet despite Brienne’s cries of indignation. 

“What the bloody hell is going on here? You’ve been following us, boy? I ought to gut you like a fish for that alone, much less – “

With a swish, Brienne draws her blade, lifting it to Sandor’s throat. “ _Put. Him. Down._ ”

Sandor’s lips curl into a snarl, his gaze sliding from Podrick’s widened eyes to Brienne’s. After a long moment he drops the boy into the dirt with a thump, just as Jaime comes towards the group, pleadingly lifting his hand. 

“Why don’t we all just take a moment,” Jaime suggests. “And calm down. Clegane, Podrick means neither you nor Lady Sansa any harm. He’s a good, trustworthy lad.”

At the mention of Sansa, the bleeding boy scrambles to his feet, eyes wide. “You found her? You found Lady Sansa?”

“And what’s it to you?” Sandor barks, feeling possessiveness rise within him. 

“He helped me look for her, before we were separated,” Brienne explains, exasperated, as she sheathes her sword. “Yes, Pod, we found her. She’s safe now. Come on, let’s get that nag of yours stabled and then we can get you some food. You look exhausted.”

“Yes, my lady, thank you.”

Sandor is left in the yard, bewildered and seething, his gray eyes flying accusingly to Jaime, who shrugs his shoulders dismissively. 

“Well, at least he wasn’t the hunting party returning,” is all that Jaime says. 

\---

Sandor sits across the table from the damned squire, broodingly glaring daggers at the young boy as he shovels food into his mouth. Sansa sits beside Sandor, watching the young boy curiously. From Sandor’s understanding, the two met during King’s Landing, when Podrick was the Imp’s squire and Sansa was his bloody wife. The memories only make his mood darker. 

“Do you have any news from your travels, Podrick?” Sansa asks kindly. The boy turns a distinctly alarming shade of red upon realizing who is addressing him, spluttering over his food as his spoon clatters to his plate.

“Well, no, my lady,” he finally manages, with Sandor scowling and rolling his eyes. “Not much has changed, I think, since I started following you.”

She smiles kindly and nods, which only makes the boy’s blush deepen, something that Sandor would have thought was impossible. He resembles an overripe tomato at this point, and as he begins sneaking glances at Sansa from beneath his lashes, Sandor leans forward.

“Do you have anything else to say to the Lady Sansa?” He growls. “Or are you content to sit there and gawk at her like a greenboy whose never seen a pretty face and a pair of teats before?”

“Sandor!” Sansa admonishes sharply as Podrick begins to offer apologies, Jaime’s laughter making the boy only stutter more as Brienne indignantly glares at Sandor. It’s an amusing landslide that he has set off, and he leans back in his chair, letting his gaze sweep lazily over Sansa, meeting her gaze. She is blushing faintly now as well, trying to keep up her mask of cool anger…but Sandor does not miss the sparkle of interest and flattered surprise in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't resist bringing Pod in! I love Pod so much, and for a while I struggled with figuring out how to make his appearance make sense, since I removed the Lady Stoneheart plotline. I think I managed alright. :)


	13. Sansa VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I meant to mention this like 6 chapters ago or so when I randomly started putting song lyrics at the front of chapters, but I derped out. They're just little snippets that remind me of the chapter I'm writing, lyrics that I think go well with the characters and the things they're feeling/facing. I'm sure you guys already figured that out buuut yeah!
> 
> Also. *whistles innocently* Don't hate me.

  
_It took so long to remember just what happened_  
_I was so young and vestal then_  
_You know it hurt me_  
_But I'm breathing so I guess I'm still alive_  
_Even if the signs seem to tell me otherwise_  


Her days are spent in relative ease, and to Sansa, it is absolutely maddening.

It’s not that she _minds_ spending her days beautifying Clegane’s Keep, but rather that she hates being unable to care for herself. She can barely climb a flight of stairs without wheezing, sudden movements make her dizzy, and her guardians all cluck over her like worried hens.

Well, _Brienne_ clucks over her, though Sansa knows she means well. She’s grown close to the large woman since the first dinner they spent together, and she genuinely enjoys Brienne’s company. But between her and Margo’s fretting and Sandor’s watchful gaze, she feels more delicate and breakable than ever. 

_You’re being ungrateful. They’re the only reason you’re still alive,_ Sansa thinks. Except she _is_ grateful, really. But there is a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach that makes her feel ashamed of her weakness, as if she is a burden. She has always been a gentle, docile thing, unable to do anything of meaning. Sure, she can sew and sing, dance and recite the names of each House and their locations…but these things are all _nothing_ when she finds herself in danger, or injured as she is now. 

One day, her frustration at herself climbs so high that she butchers the stitching on one of the curtains from the dining hall, and with a huff has to rip all of the thread out again. Sandor, who has taken to sitting and listening to her sing while she sews, glances up from his place near the cold hearth with a quirk of his unburnt brow. 

“What is it, Little Bird?”

“I’m so useless!” Sansa explodes. In the past, she would have demurely lowered her gaze, perhaps blushing at her own unladylike outburst and apologizing for her actions. But that Sansa is no more, and she allows her frustration to show as she glances up to meet his confused gaze. “I can’t make it to the gardens alone, I can’t dress alone, I can’t _bathe_ alone – “

“Well of bloody course you can’t, you have gods knows how many _broken ribs_ and – “

“Not just that! It’s made me realize how helpless and useless I’ve always been,” she snaps, standing and flinging the half-stitched drapery into her abandoned chair. “You used to tell me how stupid I was – “ here he flinches, but she continues, “and you were right. What a load of good all of my lessons in womanliness did for me when I was being swept away to the Vale by Petyr, or spirited off by Gregor!”

“You’re not stupid.” His voice in quiet when at last she stops ranting, and she whirls to face him, her chest rising and falling swiftly. She’s not sure what she expects – a mocking smirk perhaps, like the ones he used to aim at her, but she finds only…tenderness in his gaze. It halts her, making her falter. He takes it as an opportunity to continue. “And you’re not useless. Your pretty words and good manners are perhaps the only thing that kept you alive in King’s Landing. And if I remember correctly, my cunt of a brother was already wounded when I came upon him that night.” 

Here she frowns, at last letting her gaze fall to the floor as she remembers her brief moment of strength in the face of Gregor’s cruelty. Her belt of bones still remains tucked at the bottom of one of her chests, along with the soot-stained cloak Sandor had once left for her. 

“Mayhaps you saved _my_ life that night,” Sandor says, and when Sansa scowls her disbelief, he grins. Leaning forward in his chair, he rests his elbows on his knees, and Sansa is temporarily distracted by the sight of his biceps as he rests his chin languidly in one hand. “Mayhaps he would have gotten the best of me if he hadn’t been partially blinded and dizzy from blood-loss. Point is, you’re not helpless. You have the strength of the north in you, Little Bird, and aye, you may prefer songs and softness to violence. But you’re damn vicious when you need to be, so stop being so bloody hard on yourself.”

For a long moment, the two simply stare at each other, and then all of the breath whooshes out of Sansa at once. “I’m just so restless,” she murmurs quietly as she takes her place in her chair by the window once more, settling the drapes over her lap.

Sandor snorts. “Don’t see how, when you spend every waking moment turning the place into a rendering of a palace.”

She opens her mouth to ask for perhaps the hundredth time if he minds, but Sandor holds up a hand. 

“I don’t mean that badly,” he says gruffly. “This place could use it. Been a while since it didn’t look like a crypt, and I’m betting the servants appreciate it more than I do. Besides, it’ll be nice to come back here one day and see…”

He trails off, some of the warmth seeping from his gaze, and Sansa frowns. _And see traces of you when you’re gone,_ she know he means, though she cannot possibly see herself ever parting from him again. But no matter how many times she tells him such, he doesn’t believe her. And yet if she had her way, she would stay here in Clegane’s Keep forever, making it more homely, giving Sandor a place to call home and someone to return to…

But as she steels herself to say so, Brienne ducks through the doorway with Podrick in tow, and the moment is lost. Sansa returns her gaze to the drapery and continues sewing. 

\---

“Bloody buggering Maester and his bloody buggering poultices.”

Sansa shoots Sandor a sharp look, met by his own defiant one. The two of them are seated across from each other in his chambers, a wooden table between them. Sansa insistently taps her finger against the wood, pointedly looking at the little jar of clear liquid that Maester Asten has left. And Sandor sits sullenly across from her, arms crossed over his chest, glaring daggers.

The look would have quelled her once. Not anymore.

“You went long enough without even telling me you were injured,” she points out, her gaze sliding to the area beneath his folded arms where she knows a bandage is. It’s hard enough not to look at his bare chest, the curl of ebony hair there, the taut muscles across his stomach that lead downwards…and she thinks that he knows it, for his lips twitch just slightly despite his glower. But she won’t allow herself to be distracted by his shirtless state. “As soon as you apply the poultice, I’ll leave you be.”

“I don’t need a _buggering poultice_. They’re practically healed now anyways, and I’ve seen much worse. If I went putting poultices on every wound I ever received, I’d never have time to do anything else.”

“Well you’re going to put it on this one.”

“Going to make me?”

They sit glaring at one another. He is so _stubborn_ , just as bad as Arya or one of Mya’s mules. “Clearly I can’t. But I won’t stop bothering you until you do. I’ll follow you down to the yard when you spar with Jaime, I’ll follow you when you eat and sleep and – “

“Piss?” Sandor asks. 

“Maybe,” she replies with a hard jut of her chin, and he laughs, the rasping sound making her toes curl in her slippers. 

“Seven hells, alright, Little Bird.” He tries to scowl as he reaches to unstop the jar, but she can see how he struggles not to smile. Her own grin is radiant as he pauses, glances up to meet her gaze. “But you’re going to have to help me.”

Her own grin fades quickly, replaced by his own slow, crooked smirk. She’s spent so long trying to convince him, and she can’t back away now…but she cannot stop her gaze from drinking in the sight of his flexing muscles as he lifts one arm over his head, revealing the ivory bandage beneath. Clearing her throat and steeling herself, she stands and moves around the table, kneeling before him. Her cheeks heat as she sees something stir within his gaze, something primal, but she can’t meet his eyes for long. Instead she focuses on carefully peeling off his bandage, dipping her fingers into the cool, odorless poultice, and spreading it gently across his wound. The gash is scabbed and red still, but it _is_ healing like he insisted, and there is blessedly no sign of infection.

She is silent while she works, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of him as she re-bandages the wound and wipes her hands on her plain gown – something she never would have done before. And then she stands, clearing her throat and lifting her gaze to meet his. 

His brow quirks, and he nods. “Thank you, Little Bird.” And then he reaches for the laces on his breeches, making her eyes widen. 

“What?” He asks innocently, though there is a wicked gleam in his gaze. “My thigh is wounded as well, you know. Won’t you insist upon cleaning it, too?”

“You can do that one yourself!” She squeaks, swatting at his arm as he laughs deep and long, making her blush deepen as she whirls and makes for the door to his chambers. 

“Let me know if you change your mind, Little Bird,” he calls from behind her, his laughter chasing her down the hall. She makes it to the stairwell before she has to stop to catch her breath, gasping from both the pain in her ribs and the fluttering in her belly caused by _him_.

 _Get a grip,_ she thinks forcefully, but it is hard when all she can think about is his broad, chiseled chest, massive arms, and his defined stomach leading to a narrow waist…gods, but he is built like the Warrior himself! Sandor Clegane, she muses, is nothing but raw strength contained in one well-built body…

“My lady?” 

Sansa glances up sharply, only to find Podrick standing before her, blushing fiercely as always but at least able to meet her gaze now, unlike he’d been able to in King’s Landing. “Are you alright?” He asks worriedly. 

“Oh, yes,” she says, straightening, forcing herself to push all thoughts of Sandor’s body from her mind - as much as she doesn't want to. She reaches up to smooth down her fiery tresses, which are left unbound and cascade down to her slim waist. “I just…was on my way to do some more sewing, and I needed to catch my breath.”

“Shall I escort you, my lady?” He offers his arm so sweetly that Sansa smiles and accepts, gently placing her hand upon the crook of his elbow. Absently she allows him to lead her through the halls, directing him towards a wing that she has not yet gotten to. When it becomes difficult for her to continue, he is patient, talking to her of his journey with Brienne. Sansa is proud to note that she’s able to go much longer without stopping for breath now, however, and at last they reach the scratched door to one of the bedchambers. It is only then that Sansa realizes where she has allowed herself to be lead, and she shakes her head.

“Not this one,” she says gently, and Pod frowns in confusion but does not ask. Sansa learned from Margo days ago that _this_ particular door leads to the rooms that belonged to Sandor’s sister, a sister Sansa had not even known he’d had. But after hearing the whispered tale from Margo, Sansa had not dared disturb what she imaged to be the sanctity of the room. 

Podrick continues on, leading her further down the hall, and Sansa finds her gaze traveling towards a more battered door to her left. She is unable to tear her eyes away from it despite the dread that coils in her belly, and she slows to a stop, her grip falling away from Podrick’s arm.

“My lady?”

“This one. This is where I was going,” she tells him, her mouth dry. It is a lie, but suddenly she feels as if she _needs_ to open the door and step into the monster’s lair, as if by doing so it might fix the shattered pieces that litter her innards. 

Podrick looks baffled, but there is no possible way for him to know that this particular room belonged to Gregor, so he simply nods and allows her to reach for the handle of the door. Sansa’s hand trembles as she turns the knob, which is as cold as Gregor’s eyes once were. 

The door gives a groan of protest as she presses it open, attesting to its years of abuse. For a moment she can see nothing, for the room is dark and dank, the curtains heavy enough to blot out all light despite their ripped and shredded state. But slowly her eyes adjust, and she takes a single step inside.

It is all she can manage before she freezes.

It smells of _him_ \- blood and fear and sweat and bone. Her terrified gaze sweeps across the shattered bedframe, a half-standing table, a cracked mirror. There is a sprawling caramel-hued rug laid before the cold hearth, and she lets out a breathless gasp at the sight of something crimson splashed lazily across it, the same coppery substance that stains the paint of one wall.

_Blood and pain, no air, nothing, nothing -_

“Lady Sansa? Lady Sansa!”

Her knees hit the floor and she curls, clasping her hands over her ears. She is no longer there in his room, but rather back in her own. She can hear his laughter, can feel his rancid breath ghosting across her face, can feel his hands wrap around her throat, squeezing, and she can’t breathe, can’t _breathe_ \- 

Arms wrap around her, lifting her. There is nothing but darkness as she is shifted – when did she close her eyes? There is a keening noise somewhere, and belatedly Sansa realizes that it is coming from _her_ as she is sat down, her back against a wall. Without opening her eyes, she reaches for the retreating figure, desperate to keep them close, desperate for them to save her.

“Help me,” she gasps, her hands flitting down to grasp those of her savior – only to find that there is only one hand to hold, with the other ending in nothing. Her eyes flit open and she finds herself staring into the emerald orbs of Jaime Lannister. He’s carried her out of Gregor’s room and down the hall, her skirts pooling around her as she sits curled against it, with him crouching before her. 

“I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t know,” Podrick is saying, hovering worriedly behind Jaime.

“Go fetch Lady Sansa some water. Bring Brienne or Margo, if you can find them. Better yet, bring Clegane,” Jaime commands, and Podrick disappears down the hall swiftly with a bob of his head.

Sansa’s heart is still racing, but she is no longer gasping for air as her head lolls back to rest against the wall. Later she is sure she’ll be ashamed for her stupidity, and for allowing Jaime of all people to find her in such a state, but now she cannot muster the energy to care.

He sits down beside her, leaning against the wall as well, his long legs sprawled out before him as he tilts his head to consider her. “Trying to face your demons?” He guesses. 

She can do nothing more than nod, swallowing hard as she feels tears prick her eyes, tears that she cannot let fall.

“Nasty things, those,” Jaime says. “Saw a lot of them years ago, during the war. Many of the soldiers were accustomed to killing already. Some enjoyed it. Some didn’t, but tolerated it for their honor. But then there were others who couldn’t stomach it at all. Seeing your comrades cut down beside you, some of them your blood, many of them whom you love…it wasn’t easy. A lot of men struggled the way you do. Visions of the dead would come back to haunt them. In the blink of an eye, they’d be back in whatever hell stalked their nightmares, and they wouldn’t be able to tell past from present. It ate away at them.”

Sansa finds herself drawn in by his story. This Jaime Lannister is so unlike the one she’d first met in Winterfell. That man had been pompous, arrogant, and had swiftly earned her hatred during their time spent at King’s Landing. But this man…he is quieter. Different. More thoughtful. There is a faraway look in his eyes when he at last turns to face her again.

“Did any of them ever get better?” She asks him quietly, twisting her skirts into her fists. “Or will I always be…broken?”

He considers her question for a very long time, so long that Sansa begins to wonder if he’ll answer. But then he does, sounding almost tired. “Some men overcame it. Some men fell prey to it. It’s not an easy thing to have to deal with. I do not pretend to know what horrors you have faced, but anyone who can bring the Hound to heel must be one hell of a woman. You’ll overcome it. You’ll thrive.”

The last bit is a jape, followed by an almost-familiar grin, and Sansa can’t help but laugh weakly. She can feel the heavy weight in her chest easing, her pulse slowing as she swipes at her eyes. 

“I don’t know why I went in there. You must think I’m so stupid.”

Jaime shakes his head to disagree. “You felt as if you had to try, and so you did. Though I daresay poor Podrick thought he’d killed you. He nearly ran me down in the corridor, looking as if the ghost of Robert Baratheon himself was chasing at his heels, swinging his warhammer and bellowing for more wine.”

“Oh, poor Pod,” Sansa sighs, feeling horrible. She knows that she cannot have controlled what happened, but how frightened he must have been, to escort her into a room and see her collapse. And then to have _Jaime_ comfort her. What a strange day it had been. “He probably thinks I’m mad.”

Jaime laughs and opens his mouth to perhaps agree, but suddenly there is a sound from outside the nearby window, and the two of them freeze. Jaime’s eyes narrow, his head cocking swiftly to one side as he listens to the odd cacophony of noise. It is difficult to place, faint but growing closer, and Sansa’s brow furrows as she glances towards the window.

“Is that - ?” She begins.

But then it sounds again. Louder. Longer.

A chorus of howls.

The hunting party has returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured Jaime and Sansa needed to do a little friendly bonding, since I imagine their relationship would be quite tense after what went on with the Lannisters and Starks. Also, I'm sorry for the cliff-hanger. Kinda. ;)


	14. Sandor IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Okay, so. I wanted to get something out of the way before we proceed with the story. While of course I always love love loooove receiving praise from you guys, I wanted to let it be known that I am also ALWAYS open to criticism! I received my first critique last night, and instead of being bothered by them, I'm actually grateful. I know I haven't told you guys much about me, but I am an English major, with a concentration on Creative Writing. I LOVE writing, but like everyone, I have flaws. It is especially hard for me to sometimes accurately portray the characters in the wonderful way that they were originally written. Because of this, I will always take your critiques to heart and work to fix what you guys think doesn't work! One of the things pointed out was that I had made Sandor perhaps a bit too comfortable in his skin, even with the Quiet Isle plot having happened - and I agree! Sandor has always been the most difficult character for me to get behind despite my intense love for him, and I have realized after reading other fics that I need to work on him. This chapter was originally going to be from Brienne's POV, but I really wanted to practice with Sandor, so I switched it. I also would like to go back and read some of Martin's chapters from Brienne's POV before I dive into writing with her, to make sure I do her proper justice.
> 
> It was also pointed out that sometimes I make the characters speech too modern, another thing that I have struggled with. I try to make it believable for the time period but not TOO excessive, and fall flat a lot on that. So with that being said, if you guys don't mind, if you notice that I'm doing better or worse on those two aspects during the chapters I post in the future, please let me know!
> 
> I am so grateful for all of you still. I never imagined that something I wrote would get this much support and attention! I appreciate the long, contemplative reviews. I appreciate the short, brief reviews that let me know that you guys are still here. And yes, I even appreciate the critiques, because it helps me strengthen my writing! So from the very bottom of my heart, thank you all so much.
> 
> I'll stop rambling now and let you guys read. ;)

  
_Through the eye of the storm_  
_You are never alone_  
_Even through the shadows_  
_You are never alone_  
_Together we stand_  
_No matter the trial_  
_We will overcome_  


“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

Brienne shoots a particularly alarmed expression in Sandor’s direction as he goes barreling passed, though she does not move, her hands fidgeting as Podrick scurries to finish buckling her armor. Sandor's own clanks and groans as he fumbles to finish securing his final pauldron strap across his chest; he’d been too bloody _frightened_ to sit still long enough for Antony to finish assisting him with it. 

_Fucking frightened of the sound of my own hounds,_ he thinks with a sneer. They are his now, after all, and he could likely command them away from whatever sods were leading them. Regardless, it isn’t the _dogs_ that he’s scared of, rather what they symbolize: the return of the men who can potentially ruin everything. 

More than anything, he’s frightened for Sansa. She’s not healed yet, not fully, and if they have to flee from the events of today, he’s not sure how she’ll manage to sit a horse. He cannot risk losing her again.

He approaches the gates swiftly, strands of ebony hair falling aside as he tilts his head back to stare up at the guard tower where Jaime is currently stationed. “How many?”

“Three. No signs of a fourth.”

“ _Fuck_.” He was a bleeding fool for thinking that he could relax, that things would work out, because when do they ever? Three men means that one is missing, that he _hadn’t_ gone with the hunting party…and that for all they know, Lannister soldiers might have been marching for them as they spoke. 

He climbs the wall to the tower, taking a place beside Jaime as the two of them peer out towards the approaching party. They’re extremely close now, close enough to fire at…but Sandor does not miss the armor that adorns them, from boots to helm. _Definitely weren’t hunting animals._ Besides, they cannot risk missing and having one of them escape to tell the tale.

The party slows as they come to the gate, wary. The man in the lead, a massive, burly brute, lets a shrill whistle slip from his lips. A signal to the men supposedly guarding the gates, Sandor wonders? He and Jaime exchange grim looks. 

“Open the gates,” Sandor rasps at last, his voice low and tense. “And close them once they’re inside. No chance for escape.” 

There’s a groan of protesting iron as Sandor vaults down from the wall, taking his place beside Brienne, who stands tense but ready, her sword drawn. Podrick is nowhere to be seen now, and perhaps Brienne senses him wondering, for the says, “I sent him to Lady Sansa. He’s no great warrior, but the lad can wield a weapon well enough.”

Sandor grunts a reply, but a sense of relief washes through him. He does not think that three men will be of any threat to Sansa, but regardless, he’s glad to know that Podrick is with her. He’d slowly warmed to the boy over the last few days, despite Pod’s bloody blushing whenever Sansa spoke directly to him. Then again, Sandor can’t exactly blame him; she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on, after all. It’s a damn miracle that _he_ doesn’t turn into a stammering mess when those brilliant blue eyes turn to him.

For a moment when the gates have lifted, there is no movement, no sound. Everything is still, and from his place just off to the side of view from the main path, Sandor frowns. He’s gripping the pommel of his sword, only partially drawn from it's scabbard, so tightly that his knuckle protest…but he does not loosen his grip.

At last, the distinct thud-thud-thud of hooves breaks the silence, and Sandor exhales raggedly. Jaime has not yet descended from the guard tower, waiting to close the gates the moment the men have cleared them. 

The hounds come bounding through first, massive, shaggy beasts that remind him vividly of his childhood. Their coats are black as night, their sleek bodies bred for moving swiftly, their chests tapering sharply upwards into slender bellies. The lift long snouts skywards, snuffling as they warily study the newcomers in their homes, but they do not charge without order. Indeed, they seem particularly drawn to Sandor, their furry tails wagging hesitantly as they circle him, perhaps sensing something in him that reminds them of their previous masters. _Or maybe they know that I'm a dog, just like they are._

As soon as Sandor is sure the bloody creatures won’t try to turn on him and rip him to shreds, his steely gaze falls upon the procession of horses that have ridden through the gate, which is noisily clanking shut behind them. They seem entirely unbothered by the fact that they are now trapped within the walls of the Keep, and the burly man’s gaze falls on Sandor, his lips twitching into a leering smile.

“Well bugger me. The Hound’s come running back to Clegane’s Keep with his tail tucked, has he?”

The two men behind him, considerably smaller than the first but not quite puny, all titter like bloody ladies as the leader dismounts from his horse leisurely, almost lazily, as if Sandor and Brienne are not both facing him with swords in hand. _Fool._

He places meaty hands upon his hips, and Sandor does not miss how the right one is placed damn near his sword. “Where is Gregor?” He asks, when he at last realizes that Sandor will not rise to take his bait.

“Dead,” Sandor rasps, feeling an unusual sense of smugness when the bastard quirks his brows in genuine surprise. 

“Shame then, innit? And the girl?”

At this, Sandor’s rage rears its head like a viper, spitting and hissing. “None of your fucking concern.” 

The man sighs heavily, as if gravely disappointed by Sandor’s response. “But it is, _ser_ ,” he says, the word making Sandor snarl. “See, Ser Gregor left _us_ in charge of his pretty little wife should anything… _undesirable_ occur. And I’d certainly consider his turncloak brother committing an act of kinslaying again him just so, wouldn’t you?”

“You will not touch her.” Sandor’s voice is feral and guttural, like a wounded creature defending its pack. He will not stand aside and let these disgusting men lay a single hand on Sansa; never again will she be made to suffer, not when he is there. And so he pulls his sword from his scabbard in one neat draw, his stare a burning inferno of challenge as he stares the burly man down. 

“If only you’d given in peacefully,” the man rumbles with a sigh, drawing his own sword in a sweep. He is not quite as large as Sandor, and certainly not as large as Gregor had been, but with brute strength and armor, he will not be an easy target. “It’s three of us against you and a _woman_ \- though she’s so ugly that I’m beginning to wonder if she’s got something hidden between those legs of hers.”

A growl sounds behind the men, one that for once does not belong to Sandor. Jaime has quietly descended the tower, emerald eyes gleaming as one of the other men turn to face him with sword drawn. There is something hard and cold in Jaime’s gaze, something that inevitably reminds Sandor of the Kingslayer he once was. 

“Seems like a fair enough fight to me,” Sandor muses, and then he lunges. The dogs kick themselves into a frenzy as the burly man raises his sword to deflect Sandor’s devastating blow, the sound of steel ringing around them. The other men do not hesitate, advancing on Brienne and Jaime in turn, but Sandor does not have time to observe. There is nothing now but the fire that courses through his veins, a burning inferno that promises to decimate anyone and anything who dares to threaten Sansa. 

For all of his irritating boasting, Sandor’s opponent is skilled. Over and over he parries Sandor’s blows, until the two men separate, Sandor not willing to tire himself too swiftly and the other man seemingly unwilling to do anything but defend. 

They circle each other like vultures, watching for weaknesses, and then finally the man lunges. The burned side of Sandor’s lips twitch as he meets the man blow for blow, though eventually his own sheer ferocity begins to show. The man is sweating, retreating just a fraction with every few steps, his lips twisted into a sneer when he nearly trips over the circling hounds. But even as his opponent’s swings grow reckless, Sandor advances carefully, patiently, his determination unmatched. Off to the side he can see Brienne easily besting her own opponent, while Jaime ferociously hacks at his. 

But his distraction, however brief, costs him. The man’s sword nicks the skin of his neck where a small sliver is revealed between his helm and breastplate, and Sandor reels backwards. A moment longer and it might have been more than a cut, something that makes Sandor curse himself soundly in his head. He cannot afford to make stupid mistakes now. He knows better than to underestimate a man who senses that he is close to death. 

He can feel warm blood pump from the wound, matting in his stubble and coursing down his breastplate. The burly man grins, perhaps thinking that he dealt a more grievous wound than a light slash. He lunges again, lifting his sword to slash, but Sandor is swifter. His own blade slices viciously through the armor of the man’s left arm, making him curse and swear. 

“Cheap armor does a man no good,” Sandor goads, watching as fury flashes in the burly man’s gaze. Stupidly he lunges again, but Sandor is ready, driving his own sword forward so violently that it punches through the plate of the man’s stomach, exploding from the spine with a wet crunch. 

Grinning wildly, Sandor pulls the man forward by the blade, bending so his mouth is close to the dying man’s ear. “I told you; you. Will. Not. Touch. Her.”

Pulling away, he uses the sole of his boot to shove the man harshly from the end of his sword, his blood pumping furiously in his veins as he stands gazing down at the bloody, broken corpse. Only when he hears the clearing of a throat does he look up, seeing that Brienne and Jaime have dispatched their own opponents and now stand very near to each other, watching him. He is distinctly aware of the blood on his armor, a bit of his own but mostly the man’s, and when he lifts his hand to yank off his helm and run his hand through his sweaty hair, he feels his palm smear the hot, crimson substance into the strands. 

There is a flash of red from the corner of his eye and Sandor turns sharply, just in time to see Sansa peeking from behind the curtains of the windows in the dining hall. He lifts a mailed fist to tell her no, to gesture for her to remain inside where she will not have to see the blood of the dead and smell their voided bowels, but a moment after disappearing from the window she comes darting outside with Podrick in tow. 

“Little Bird.” His voice is hoarser than usual, more of a growl, and he stops with a wince as her wide-eyed gaze comes to rest on him, blood-soaked and breathing like a blown horse from his victory. How horrible he must look, with his crimson-streaked hair plastered to his gruesome scars. _She will see what a monster you are now, dog. She is terrified of you._

He can smell the fear radiating off of her, even above the gore around them, and with a snarl he turns away. But a moment later she is barreling into him without any regard for the blood that smears against her dress, cornflower blue orbs locked firmly upon the cut on his neck. “Oh, Sandor, you’re hurt! What do I do? Bandages, I need bandages, the Maester – “

“Little Bird,” he says again, and he lifts his hand to still her own fluttering fingers, realizing with a twisting feeling in his gut that she is not scared _of_ him – she is scared _for_ him. “Looks worse than it is. It’s only a scratch, girl.”

Despite the gruffness of his voice - _damn you, dog, why can’t you ever just be kind to her? She’s worried about you_ \- she does not pull away, instead sobbing her relief as she reaches for him. He crushes her close to him, despising himself for how he is dirtying her beautiful, porcelain skin with his own filth...and yet reveling in the warmth of her. 

“The man there, the big one…that’s Marak. There was only three?” She whispers as she twists her head to observe the bodies that litter the earth, and Sandor is yanked out of his foolish reverie, remembering suddenly that they are in danger. The fourth man is still unaccounted for. But just as he opens his mouth to tell her yes, Podrick calls from above the gates that he’d climbed during their brief reunion.

“My lady!” He leans out with his gaze upon Brienne, his eyes wide with worry and disbelief. “Another rider!” 

Without hesitating, Sandor shoves Sansa towards Brienne, perhaps more roughly than he intended. His heart is pounding once more as he scrambles up the ladder after Jaime, the two of them squinting towards the distance, where indeed another rider has appeared. But the horse is not moving, neither forward nor away, and as they stand there staring, Sandor’s skin begins to crawl.

“He’s not coming nearer,” Podrick observes stupidly, making Sandor scowl and cuff the boy, who frowns his displeasure. “Well, he’s not. Why?”

“If I bloody well knew, don’t you think I would have found a solution by now?” He snaps. The man is too far away to fire at, but just close enough for Sandor to faintly make out the bare minimum of his features. 

For what seems like an eternity, he sits there upon his horse, the wind whistling across the plains. And then suddenly the man reels the horse around, the pair of them disappearing upon the horizon. 

“No.” His voice is sharp, booming like thunder as his fists collide with the stone of the tower. He has _failed_ her, because he has allowed the rider to escape, and everything within Sandor sinks, anchored by his feelings of worthlessness. 

“I don’t understand,” Podrick says softly, his gaze flitting up to Sandor and then moving to Jaime, confusion pulling at his brows. “Why did he turn around?”

“The whistle,” Jaime says quietly. “From earlier. They weren’t calling to the guards on the gate; they were warning him to lag behind.” 

“He was waiting for a signal,” Sandor agrees. “And now he knows that something is amiss.”

“What did he look like?”

Sandor whirls at the sound of the delicate voice to find that Sansa has climbed to the tower. He shoots a scathing look at Brienne behind her, who has the decency to look ashamed. 

“The rider that escaped,” Sansa presses intently. “What did he look like, Sandor?”

“Red hair. Darker than yours. Long.” He is struggling to control his anger, his failure, to not let it poison his tone when he speaks to her, for it is not _her_ fault. “Sharp features, mayhaps? Hard to tell from so far away.”

But Sansa has already paled, her hands trembling as she fists them in her skirts, muttering one word – one name. “Brenn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last note: the hounds mentioned in this chapter are based off of the looks of Borzoi's, which are lovely sighthounds that I thought would be fitting for hunting dogs in this period. I'm not sure how to link images in notes (I'm a noob to this, guys, I really am!), but if any of you were interested in googling them, I wanted to include their names. :)
> 
> Also, a question for my lovely readers: are you guys bothered by the fact that I use italics quite frequently? It's what I consider to be a downfall in my overall writing; I do it in the novels I write as well, and had a man in my first Creative Writing class a few years ago be absolutely brutal about it. I've actually toned it down since then (I know, I know, I still use a ton)...but is this something that you guys have noticed? If so, does it bother you? Or do you like the offered emphasis?


	15. Jaime III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one for you guys, to help get the ball rolling in preparation for the next chapter. :) I also realized this is turning out to be more of a slow burn than I expected...but don't worry, I won't leave you guys hanging _too_ much longer! 
> 
> I'm simply too tired tonight to fully proof-read this; I glanced it over briefly before posting, but it's 3 A.M. here and I need sleep! Please forgive me if there are mistakes!

  
_We'll run where lights won't chase us_  
_Hide where love can save us_  
_I will never let you go_  


In the end, it’s decided that they cannot risk remaining at Clegane’s Keep for a moment longer.

It is not an easy decision to make. It takes them the remainder of the day and night after the hunting party’s return to come to an agreement. They sit around the dining table late into the evening, with Brienne to Jaime’s left and Podrick on her right, Sansa and Sandor seated across from him. 

Despite the loose cross of his arms and the inquisitive set of his jaw, Jaime is tense. He knows that the delicate game of cat-and-mouse they play has suddenly become riskier…but in a way, he’d actually enjoyed the time spent at Clegane’s Keep. Days of peace will be few and far between now, and wistfully he finds himself recalling his days spent teasing Brienne, sparring with Podrick and Sandor, and lounging in the sun of the gardens like a tomcat in a windowsill. 

Sandor is clearly torn, his jaw rigid and his muscles bunched as he contemplates the choice laid before him. “Sansa’s not well enough to travel,” he growls for the second time, this clearly being the forefront of his worries. “But it would be foolish to remain here and wait to see what that cowardly cunt does. For all we know, he could come bearing down on us with an army of Lannister soldiers within days.”

“But we’re on Lannister land,” Podrick chimes in, and Jaime cuts his eyes to the boy, who frowns. “Apologies, Ser Jaime, but can’t you just…order the soldiers to stand down?”

“I could,” Jaime muses. “But whether or not they obey me is a different story entirely. If they have orders from my dear sister – and considering the fact that they would not dare march on Clegane’s Keep if they _didn’t_ \- then the word of the Queen Regent would usurp my own. And furthermore, let us not forget that Cersei is the one who ordered Gregor to take Sansa. She’ll be spitting fire when she learns that the girl is not dead.” 

“But she doesn’t know that I’m alive,” Sansa says. “Brenn couldn’t have possibly known what happened beyond the walls, could he? He only knew that something was amiss, but unsure of what. He doesn’t know that G-Gregor is dead,” and bless her, Jaime thinks, for though she stumbles over the monster’s name, she does not falter again, “or that any of you are here with me.”

“True. And yet, just as you said, he knows that _something_ is amiss. You told us that he’s a clever man. I’d bet my golden hand that he’ll report to Cersei, and she’ll send men to investigate – especially considering she hasn’t received word back regarding her letter. And when Lannister men find Gregor dead and you being guarded by a turncloak and her own _beloved_ brother, she will not order them to show mercy.”

Though Jaime’s tone had begun light, it had darkened and curdled as he spoke of his sister, until he is practically spitting the final words. He can feel Brienne’s gaze when it falls upon him, but he does not look up. Heaving a weary sigh, he instead stands and paces over to the hearth. “We have no choice. We have to decide where we’re going – now.”

For a long moment, he thinks that no one will speak, and his irritation spikes. It is unusual, but he can feel the stress coiling within him, driving his usual calm demeanor to the breaking point.

But then Sandor leans forward with a growl, spitting a single word. “Lys.”

“Lys?” Jaime repeats, stunned as he slumps back into his chair. Brienne and Sansa both look entirely undisturbed by the suggestion, but as high born women both, Jaime supposes they'd be ignorant to Lys' reputation.

“They’re particularly famous for their courtesans,” Podrick offers so very helpfully, which makes Brienne blush and Sansa let out a squeak of disbelief. 

“ _Thank you_ , Podrick. Very subtle, as always,” Jaime replies dryly, while Sandor shoots the boy looks that would fell a lesser lad. “But truly, Clegane. Why Lys?”

“Last place anyone would look, I’d wager,” Sandor grunts. “Look at the way the pair of you blanched like wights at the mention of it. Even if I am a turncloak cur and you the disgraced brother to the bloody queen, I reckon no one would imagine we’d spirit precious Lady Stark away to a place renowned for whores.”

Sansa’s cheeks have turned a delicate shade of pink, Jaime notices with faint amusement – though Brienne is beginning to worry him, her face so very red that he fears she’ll burst into flames. “It’s a long journey that we would face. We wouldn’t be able to risk crossing the Riverlands and the Neck to reach White Harbor, though it would undoubtedly be a safer location to sail from. We’ll have to sail from Lannisport; we’ll make up for the time we’d spend riding to White Harbor, but we’ll lose that time – and more – having to sail around all of bloody Westeros.”

“Less riding for the Little Bird,” Sandor murmurs, calling her by that peculiar nickname that he is so very fond of. Jaime’s head cocks to the side swiftly, emerald eyes assessing the large man who sits sprawled across from him, limbs far too long to fit neatly into a chair. He meets Jaime's gaze stubbornly, gray eyes flashing like steel, daring the lion to challenge him on his endearment. Jaime doesn't dare.

“I fear I do not know much about Lys,” Brienne says, her voice quiet and wistful. “But my father told me once that the waters there are as blue as sapphires, and the land is peppered with fruit trees and palms.” 

“Oh,” Sansa says breathlessly, her voice a mingled mixture of fading worry and awe. “It sounds so lovely!”

“Wouldn’t matter if the water was the color of piss and the trees grew bollocks,” Sandor grinds out, so very eloquent as always. “We’d still go if it were safe.” 

Podrick’s face contorts, and Jaime cannot help the snort of laughter that escapes him. Sandor, however, is entirely unamused.

“Sellswords find easy work in Lys,” he rasps. “Between you, Brienne, and I, we’ll earn decent coin. The city is well-protected for Sansa, and as much as the bloody Lyseni like their fine silks and fancy trades, they’ll throw a fit over the Little Bird’s embroidery.”

It’s an off-handed comment, but Jaime spent many years learning to look closely; it was, after all, a necessity in King’s Landing where he’d been branded the Kingslayer. And so he does not miss how Sansa blushes prettily, bright blue eyes seeking Sandor out beneath her lashes. And he’ll be damned, but if he’s not mistaken, Jaime thinks he sees Sandor’s lips begin to twitch into a smile.

They’re a bloody strange couple, he’ll give them that – though Jaime still cannot precisely pinpoint what’s between the two. One thing, however, is certain: in all of the years that he has known Sandor Clegane, Jaime has _never_ seen the man gaze upon anyone with such fondness as he aims at Sansa Stark.

 _Did I ever gaze at Cersei like that? I must have, before it all went to shit,_ he thinks, suddenly yearning for wine as tendrils of dark thoughts brush against him. But now is not the time for such thoughts; later he’ll brood on them, licking his wounds like an injured beast.

“I’ve decided to come with you across the seas,” Brienne offers, though she was silent on the decision before, despite Sandor automatically roping her services into the matter. “Lady Arya hasn’t been spotted in the Seven Kingdoms in months. I can keep an eye out for her across the seas, and pray that we find her there, if the Gods are good.”

Jaime inclines his head, relieved that he will not have to part from the fierce femme so soon. Something about Brienne is…endearing. She lacks the gilded beauty of Cersei, the soft femininity of Sansa, but strangely Jaime does not think less of her for it. She is strong and kind, with a genuine heart that Jaime might have scorned once, but which he now values. 

“And you?” Sandor asks, his question directed at Podrick, who frowns but does not flinch from the man’s gaze.

“I’ll go wherever Lady Brienne goes,” he says boldly. “We’ve found Lady Sansa now; it would be nice to find Lady Arya, as well.”

“So it’s settled,” Jaime says, leaning back in his chair, the legs wobbling precariously. “We leave on the morrow?”

“On the morrow,” Sandor agrees. “Early. We’d all best rest while we can.”

And with that the group disperses, Sandor disappearing with Sansa on his arm, Podrick scurrying off to begin packing he and Brienne’s things. Jaime stands and stretches slowly, languidly, like a great maned cat woken from a nap. His tunic rises up just slightly, cool air licking at the sliver of skin revealed, just as his gaze cuts sideways to meet Brienne’s probing gaze. At his grin, she blushes and whirls, making as if to follow the others, but Jaime reaches out and stills her with the touch of his hand.

“Brienne,” he says, suddenly serious, and she turns back towards him, trying to hide her familiar blush. “Are you quite certain about this? Crossing the sea with us? I know I’ve badgered you about your decision these last few days, but if you would rather stay here to continue your search for Arya…”

He trails off, waiting. He hopes in his heart, so selfishly, that she will insist she wishes to go. And when that is exactly what she does, a little smile of relief springs to his lips.

“It would feel strange to part from you all now,” Brienne admits with a small frown. “I’ve just found Lady Sansa, and Pod has just found _me_. And I’ve traveled with you for so long…”

She trails off, seemingly struggling to put her thoughts into words, and Jaime cannot resist grinning, flinging an arm around her shoulder – though she is taller than he, making the movement awkward.

“Oh, Brienne,” he says warmly. “I’d miss you as well, though perhaps not as much as you’d miss me. I know, I know; you simply cannot help it.”

“You ass,” she snips, recoiling to aim a punch at his shoulder that makes Jaime wince despite his chortling laughter. For a moment she glares at him, blue eyes sparkling with distaste…but then they soften, and she is laughing, too. The sound is not the tinkling, delicate laughter he is used to from ladies. It is a genuine, booming guffaw straight from the heart, and that makes amusing her so much more rewarding. 

Despite their approaching journey and the danger that breathes down their necks like some stubborn hound, he is endlessly grateful for Brienne in that moment.


	16. Sansa VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the wait on this one! I meant to have it up days ago, but ending up having to pick up a few shifts at work, and was just too tired to write this chapter without butchering it. I hope you all enjoy!

Sansa rises early the next morning, before the sun has even hinted at peaking over the horizon. The skies are a pale shade of gray outside of her window, the world beyond seemingly so tranquil and serene. For a moment she stands with her curtain pushed aside, her robe pulled around herself as she simply stares. It is jarring to think that in mere hours, they will be on the road for Lannisport to set sail for Essos, fleeing the danger that the Crown poses. 

_So much running,_ she thinks wearily as she turns from the window at the sound of Margo entering her chambers. She is tired, so very tired, of constantly fleeing for her life. She longs for somewhere that she can pause to catch her breath, somewhere that will not be ripped from her the moment she is discovered. She longs for a _home_ , a place that she can freely make her own. Which only serves to remind her of Clegane’s Keep; she’s tried her best to brighten it day by day, and now she will miss the neat little stitches on the drapery she spies in passing, or the way the gardens seem to flourish beneath a loving hand. It has the potential to be a warm, welcoming place if given the chance, and though perhaps it is presumptuous of Sansa to think so, she hopes that one day she will return.

Margo has her sons bring up steaming water for a bath – the last proper one that Sansa might have in some time. She sinks gratefully into the warmth of it when only she and Margo remain, and Margo hums as she combs Sansa’s wet tresses, making Sansa’s eyes prick with tears. Her mother used to hum to her while she helped Sansa dress, and though Margo hums a song not from the north, it makes her heart constrict.

“I will miss you,” Sansa admits later, when she is wrapped in a warmed linen cloth and seated on her bed while Margo readies her outfit. “You were the first one to show me kindness here, and I am certainly determined that I will see you again one day.”

“Of course you will, child,” Margo says softly, a peculiar gleam in her eyes as she helps Sansa into simple small-clothes, a shift with only the faintest adorning’s of lace, a warm wool-lined dress to combat the chilliness of autumn, and good, sturdy boots that were Margo’s own – and that are a fraction too big for Sansa’s feet, a problem easily combated by pairing them with thick, warm stockings. Beneath her small-clothes, her torso has also been bound with stiff bandages under Maester Asten’s instructions, with the hope that they will assist in minimizing the jostling done to her ribs on the journey. 

Margo binds her hair into a neat braid, and then pauses, her hands coming to rest upon Sansa’s cheek. They are calloused from work and yet so very comforting, and Sansa closes her eyes, relishing in the type of warm affection that only another woman can offer. “Words cannot express how grateful I am that you survived _him_. I prayed every morning and every night to the Seven. I watched each of his past wives deteriorate and perish beneath his hands, and I wished only for you to be spared that fate. Enough that I contemplated attempting to kill the beast in his sleep.”

Sansa’s eyes meet Margo’s in the looking glass. She sees the firm set of the woman’s jaw, the fire in her gaze, and this time Sansa lets her tears fall. This woman, who’d learned to lay low over the years, to ensure the survival of herself and her sons, would have risked it all for Sansa. Her heart throbs as she stands and turns to embrace Margo fiercely, for words will not suffice to explain how much this means to her. In the recent years, there have been so few people whom Sansa could truly trust, who she could truly _love_. The majority of them had perished, leaving her heart cracked and bleeding, raw and wounded. But she has found a friend in Margo, the type of companionship that will weather a lifetime of hardships, even with oceans separating them. 

She can hear the sound of voices and clamoring from the yard outside, and reluctantly she releases Margo. The two swiftly ensure that everything is packed, from practical clothing to the few meager pieces of jewelry that Gregor’s men did not take from her, water skins and bundles of food that Margo had gathered from the kitchens, extra cloths for her moonblood…and Sandor’s cloak tucked safely away alongside her belt of bones. Sansa knows that it is foolish to tote the two around, but they have been with her for so very long, with one having served to save her life and the other offering her comfort on her darkest of nights.

Together, she and Margo descend the stairs of the keep and exit onto the grounds, where there is a quiet flurry of movement. Sansa’s eyes are drawn to Sandor, his hulking form busy loading a small but sturdy wooden cart with a supplies. Hooked to the cart is the gentle palfrey who carried her from the Vale to Clegane’s Keep, and Sansa smiles happily to see her. It is clear that the horse is unhappy, certainly never having deigned to pull a cart before, but the mare is a good-tempered one, and only stomps her hooves a few times to signify her distress. 

Brienne and Jaime are speaking off to one side with Maester Asten, and Podrick is tucked off near the stables, sadly stroking the muzzle of the ugly, sway-backed horse that he arrived on. Sansa approaches the squire with Margo’s assistance, breathing heavily, but Podrick is good enough to pretend not to notice.

“My lady,” he greets her, his face blooming with his familiar blush. She smiles at him, and the small movement seems to ease his nerves slightly. “I’m saying goodbye. Clegane says we can’t take her, and Brienne agrees. She’s old, my lady, and they think she might not survive the long trip oversees. Margo’s sons agreed to take good care of her.”

“She’ll be in good hands,” Sansa says gently, for the knows the pain of parting with a beloved companion. Lady still visits her in her dreams sometimes, and while the pain of losing the direwolf has lessened, Sansa knows that it will never fully fade. “Will you be taking another horse?” 

“No, my lady. I’ll be riding in the cart with you to Lannisport, and from there, Clegane says we’ll figure it out once we reach Lys. He says it will already be a hassle to take Stranger and Honor, plus Brienne’s horse.”

Sansa nods, though distractedly. Her lips have pulled into a frown, for she is not happy to see the cart. She _knows_ that it is likely better to ride in it, but it makes her feel strangely self-conscious, and after excusing herself from Pod, she approaches Sandor.

The muscled warrior turns at the sound of her approach, appraising her warmly. Though she wears only a plain gown, her tresses tied back, he gazes at her as if she is the most beautiful woman in the world, dressed in finery and extravagance. She feels her cheeks color, her head dipping just slightly.

“Is the cart really necessary?” she asks, voice low.

“Yes,” Sandor rasps, almost flatly. “We cannot risk injuring your ribs further – and _especially_ not you head. Maester Asten agrees.”

Though she wants to argue, Sansa knows he is right. Her ribs still ache, and her head…well, that is a different story entirely. It shames her so much that she is reluctant to mention it, but as of late she has noticed that some of her memories evade her. They are only small details, little things she could have recalled before but can no longer. She can unfortunately still remember the sight of her father’s head rolling, of Joffrey’s curling, poisonous smirk, of the Mountain’s bruising grasp and heavy gaze. But she cannot remember the color of her Septa’s eyes, or the names of the seat of every House, or the precise sound of her mother’s laughter. It makes her heart ache, and many nights Sansa lays awake, staring at the ceiling with wide, unseeing eyes, trying to force herself to remember. But it is useless, just like _she_ is with her injuries. Her fists curl against her sides – or, rather, try to. Her right hand still sports bandages that bind her last three fingers together, and it only serves as a reminder of how helpless she is in that moment. 

“Sansa.” She startles at the sound of her name, for it is rare for Sandor to use it. 'Little Bird' is more common, and her gaze snaps up to meet his as he leans down towards her. “No use being hard on yourself, girl. None of this is your fault.”

“I know,” she whispers wretchedly, letting her gaze flit to the earth. “But a cart will only slow us down…”

“Aye,” he confirms, but before Sansa can slip further into her internal sea of loathing, he continues. “But Lannisport is a short distance from here, Little Bird. A cart will add a day at most to a two-day journey, if Jaime’s estimates aren’t amiss.” 

“And they’re _not_ ,” Jaime calls from the other side of the cart, where he is assisting Brienne with padding the rough wooden bottom with blankets and furs. Sandor gives a snort of disdain, murmuring exactly what he thinks of Jaime under his breath, which makes Sansa giggle. Unknowingly, her companions have assisted in lightening her mood, making her feel a fraction – just a _sliver_ \- less burdensome. 

“My Lady,” comes a quiet voice, and Sansa turns to find that Maester Asten has approached her, smiling warmly in her direction. Though he has spent endless days poking and prodding, administering medicines to her healing body, he never ceases to seem delighted at the sight of her. She is struck by the desire to embrace him, to throw her arms around his neck and thank him profusely, but she checks herself at the last moment. It would not be seemly of her to hang from his neck like a child…and besides, he is frail and elderly. She’d likely send him sprawling if she tried. 

“I took it upon myself to put this together for you,” he says, offering her a wooden box just small enough to be tucked into a saddlebag. “It’s a collection of poultices and remedies for ailments. They are all marked for their usage and dosages; I hope they’ll be helpful to you. I even put a bit of the Milk of the Poppy in for you, though as always, I suggest using it sparingly – only if the situation is dire.”

She takes the box from him carefully, unable to stop the grin that stretches across her face. “Oh, Maester, I cannot thank you enough,” she breathes, realizing how valuable the gift is. They will spend moons at sea, Sandor estimates, with no Maester to be found until they reach Essos. Asten has given her a precious present, one that Sansa clutches to her chest as she gazes up at him. She feels the prick of tears building in her eyes once more, and though she feels foolish for babbling like a baby so many times already, she cannot stop them. _Bugger propriety,_ she thinks, only faintly startled at her own crass thoughts. She moves forward to embrace the Maester, though far less roughly than she’d considered before. Her arms are met by a breath of surprise, but a moment later he is patting her shoulder gently, offering her quiet comfort.

“We have to be going, my lady,” says Brienne from behind her, gently but insistently. Sniffling and nodding, Sansa withdraws from the Maester, letting her gaze sweep over the collection of servants that have gathered to fondly see her off. Asten, Margo and her sons, the Kennel Master, the cook and the maids. She smiles at each of them, determination rising fiercely in her breast. “I will see you again one day,” she vows. “Each of you.” Perhaps it is presumptuous to assume such, but the warm look in each of their gazes makes it worthwhile. 

At last she turns away and allows Podrick to help her into the cart as the others mount their horses. She settles gingerly upon the piles of furs, her back propped against the side of the cart, with Podrick a proper distance away. There comes an excited baying from beside the cart, and Sansa peeks over the edge to find one of the sleek ebony hounds slipping eagerly between the bodies of the horses. 

“We’re taking a hound?” she asks, turning to Podrick just as the cart begins to move. Sandor rides ahead upon Stranger, the palfrey that leads the cart tied to the great black destrier. Brienne and Jaime ride on either side of the cart, a pair of vigilant escorts clad in their armor. 

“Yes, my lady,” answers Podrick. “Clegane said we could use one, for hunting and guarding. He rose early to speak with the Kennel Master, so that he could figure out which was most obedient. He seemed loathe to part with the hounds, truthfully.” Podrick’s voice has dipped lower, his gaze flitting towards Sandor, who remains oblivious to their conversation. “Says her name is Daiyu.”

Sansa watches the long, lean figure of the hound trot along beside the wagon, and finds that she is glad the dog is coming along. A hound is no direwolf, but she supposes that they are not _terribly_ different, her thoughts returning to Lady as they are wont to do. And then they turn to Sandor, thinking of the three black hounds of his house - and the gray direwolf of her own. _No,_ she muses. _Not terribly different at all._

As if sensing Sansa’s stare, Daiyu looks up at her with wide, warm brown eyes, tongue lolling from the side of her mouth. Sansa smiles at the sight of it, and then reclines back into her nest of blankets, attempting to ignore the gentle jostling of the wagon, and the pounding of her head. 

\---

They make good time, or so Jaime claims, as they make their way along the road towards Lannisport. They move slowly for Sansa’s sake, as much as she despises this fact, and the first night they make camp off of the road in a clearing surrounded by trees. Sandor forbids a fire, not wishing to draw Lannister soldiers towards them if they _have_ marched for the Keep, despite Jaime’s protestations that it is far too soon. 

Jaime and Podrick set to work laying out their bedrolls, while Sandor and Brienne unsaddle the horses. Sansa is forbidden from assisting by Sandor, and though she sighs, she knows that it is useless to protest. He has become fiercely protective of her, and no amount of pleading or reasoning on her part will make him stand down. She sits on the edge of the cart, her ankles crossed primly, skirts falling around her legs as Daiyu sits at her feet. Her hand trails down to scratch the hound behind the ear, for the she-dog has taken swiftly to Sansa, which delights her. 

When the bedrolls are laid out and the horses are settled, Sandor comes to help Sansa from the cart. His large hands wrap around her narrow waist as he lifts her, gently placing her down before him. His hands linger upon her just as his eyes linger on her face, drinking her in, assessing her. “Are you in pain?” he rasps quietly, his head bending so that his voice better reaches her. His breath ghosts across the top of her head, and she finds her gaze darting to his lips, studying both the scarred and the good side. When their gazes meet again, they feel heavy. Charged. 

“A bit sore, in my ribs,” she admits, and he nods grimly.

“Your head?”

“Aching, but not terribly.”

Despite the way she attempts to downplay her pain, he still guides her carefully over to her bedroll, which she does not fail to notice has been placed near to his. The realization makes her breath quicken, though she knows it is irrational. There are others around them, with Brienne’s bedroll on her other side, and she is sure that he has only placed _his_ so close so that he may protect her. But this does not stop her traitorous heart from pounding swiftly as she tucks her legs neatly beneath her, the exact opposite of the way Sandor sprawls out on his own bedroll, rustling through his saddlebags.

Their group dines on a dinner of soft figs, cheese, cold bread, and bits of salted pork that night. When her belly is full and sated, Sansa sits feeding bits of her remaining meat to Daiyu, who has curled at Sansa’s feet, offering warmth. Sandor watches with hooded eyes, his hands folded over his stomach as he lays back on his bedroll.

“She likes you very much,” Brienne observes curiously, watching the way Daiyu licks affectionately at Sansa’s fingers. 

“Yes,” Sansa admits, smiling. “I used to spend hours with the pups in Winterfell’s kennels, when I was younger. It wasn’t particularly lady-like to sit in the hay with curs, and my Septa always scolded me horribly for it. But the pups were so sweet, and the mothers seemed relieved to have a moment of reprieve while I played with them. Arya would always join me, and usually Brann and Rickon, as well. Sometimes Robb, but he was usually off with Theon. And then father allowed us to keep our direwolves…”

She trails off, frowning as her fingers burrow into Daiyu’s long ebony fur. She is taken by the memories she spoke of, though she finds it is terribly difficult to remember any of the pups in particular. She knows that she played with them, knows that she pulled them into her lap and stroked their soft ears…but she can recall little more than that. And Lady…what color were her eyes?

She sucks in a sharp, startled breath, her hands beginning to tremble. Daiyu whines softly, and when Sansa looks up, she sees Sandor’s eyes heavy upon her, likely recalling Lady’s death. 

“Time to sleep,” he rumbles to the others, and they all hasten to do so, perhaps sensing that talk has soured. Sansa aims a small, grateful smile in Sandor’s direction, and he inclines his head to her just a fraction.

That night, she sleeps beneath the stars with Daiyu curled between she and Sandor’s bedrolls. And when she wakes from a nightmare where Gregor strangles a youthful Lady, she feels Sandor reach across the short distance between them, lacing their fingers together silently. 

It is perhaps the only thing that allows her to drift off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of you guessed at some of the things from this chapter - namely the cart and the hound. I think some of you are mind-readers, honestly. ;)


	17. Podrick I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, Podrick chapter? I don’t believe GRRM ever wrote a POV chapter from Podrick – I may be forgetting though, and if so, I’m sorry! Either way, I hope I do him justice. I thought he might help to add a tidbit of lightness to the story. :)

The days they spend on the road are not terribly dreadful, though they are boring. They do not dare light a fire at night, and Podrick is thankful for the furs that were piled in the cart for Sansa, for they fight away the chill of dawn. They at least are able to travel the road to Lannisport, a blessing in itself, though the closer they grow, the more traffic they begin to encounter. Jaime and Sandor are careful to keep their hoods up, and Sansa’s telltale hair is wrapped beneath a scarf as she lounges beside Podrick in the cart. Brienne is under no threat of discovery, for even if she is recognized, the Maid of Tarth is not currently wanted for anything. And so they ride, with Brienne posing as a guard to the traveling cart to anyone who dares to ask, though few do. 

Sansa plays her part of a sickly commoner well. She keeps her eyes downcast, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders, and never deigns to speak aside from offering up the occasional cough that is so believable that their party begins to worry. But she insists she is fine – though Podrick can see clearly by the set of Clegane’s jaw that he does not believe her.

They are a strange pair, the Lady Sansa and Sandor Clegane. Though Clegane has become short-tempered and tense during their journey, he is gentler with her, if only a fraction. The weight of their journey is heavy upon them all, and it shows in a silent battle of wills between Ser Jaime and Clegane, neither of them yielding to the other. In a normal scenario, Jaime Lannister would be Clegane’s liege lord, Podrick knows, and therefore hold sway over the snarling, scarred man.

But this is not a normal scenario. Clegane is a turncloak, Lady Sansa is a fugitive, and Jaime Lannister very well might be in his sister’s good graces no longer. And so the two of them, one fair and one dark, squabble day and night. There is much eye-rolling and sighing on Lady Sansa and Lady Brienne’s parts, he notices with no small amount of amusement, though he is wise enough to stay out of matters. He follows orders as he is given them, helps with cleaning armor and saddling horses, and keeps his mouth shut. 

Even now as they near the gates of Lannisport, Clegane and Jaime are murmuring furiously to one another, making their horses snort with agitation. Podrick follows the argument half-heartedly – something about who should be the one to scout out ships, which seems like a terribly senseless argument to him, because _obviously_ it should be he and Brienne. But he supposes lions and dogs were never meant to coexist in the first place, and with neither of them allowing the other to fully take the reins of their little journey, it can only be expected. 

“They’ll kill each other before we even board a ship,” Sansa murmurs suddenly from beside him, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. She is lovely, Podrick thinks for perhaps the millionth time, feeling his cheeks flame as she turns her gaze on him. He knows he looks foolish, but he cannot help it, not when he’s always felt so blundering and childish in the face of her quiet grace. It has been this way since the day he first met her in King's Landing, back when he'd been entirely unable to mutter even a word to her. That was before he had discovered that she was gentle and kind, a _true_ lady - though that certainly does not make him blush any less. 

Still, he manages a jape. “I’d place my wagers on Clegane, my lady. Ser Jaime is fierce but Clegane won’t die until you’ve been seen to safety, you can be sure of that.” 

“I’ll kill the both of them if they don’t settle down,” Brienne grouches from beside the cart, “and I’ll see Lady Sansa to safety _myself_.”

Sansa laughs, soft and clear, and the sound abruptly silences both Jaime and Clegane, who swivel in their saddles to see what has amused her so. 

"Keep doing that and maybe they'll gape at you the entire way instead of arguing," Podrick cannot help but comment, much to Sansa's delight. 

The rest of the journey to Lannisport passes in relative silence, for they are swiftly approaching the gates. The sun is beginning to set on the horizon, sinking lower and lower among a nest of orange-streaked skies. The gates of the city will close soon, and it shows in the way that the merchants around them begin to move swiftly, crowding towards the two guards that glance lazily over the passing wagons.

Podrick is relieved that they do not seem to be looking too closely at travelers. He supposes that Lannisport is safe enough with Lannister’s sitting the throne, and perhaps this has caused the guards to become lax. Even _he_ knows how foolish this is, but he is not complaining. Instead he simply plasters a look of bored indifference onto his features as Sandor orders Daiyu into the cart, where the hound happily curls up near Sansa – though Podrick notices the creature remains sharply alert. 

There is a tense moment where they reach the gates and the shorter of the guards seems to focus upon them, head cocking to the side. His eyes pass over the seemingly sick young woman huddled in the back of a cart piled with furs, flitting across the two hooded men and their armed escort, and then to Podrick himself. But the man says nothing as they pass through the gates, and then they are in Lannisport, beholding it in all of its glory, with Casterly Rock looming on the distant horizon.

The city is beautiful, Podrick thinks, with whitewashed stone and a steady stream of _life_ despite the hour. They pass merchants on every corner, selling off the last of their wares for the day, calling out bargain prices to them as they pass. Jaime has taken the lead now, and it is to an inn on the outskirts of Lannisport, nearest to the path leading to the ships, where they at last stop. Podrick helps Sansa from the cart while Brienne goes to arrange rooms and stalls for their horses, being the least recognizable of the group. She returns shortly later to help with unloading the cart, and two stable boys hasten to help with their horses once Jaime flicks each of them a generous coin.

“Don’t touch this one,” Clegane commands as he leads Stranger into a stall himself. “Unless you’re keen on losing a few fingers. I’ll return later to take care of him myself.”

He whirls without waiting for a confirmation and moves to pull Sansa’s hood up for her, before taking her by the arm and leading her into the tavern. Podrick is left to help the others carry supplies upstairs, which he does with little complaint, unloading Sansa’s things gently in the room to be shared by she and Brienne – directly adjacent to the one that he himself is to share with Jaime and Clegane.

When at last they’ve secured their cart, horses, and items, Brienne slips downstairs to buy meals for them. They all crowd into the women’s room to dine in a tired but comfortable silence, descending upon their food the moment two serving wenches deliver it before bowing out of the room. It is the best thing that Podrick has eaten since leaving Clegane’s Keep – a stew of tender rabbit with carrots and parsnips, rolls slathered in honey, and plenty of ale, though the group drinks sparingly from it. They cannot be too careful, Podrick supposes. 

“Pod and I will go down to the docks at nightfall to see about ships,” Brienne says when they’ve all stopped shoveling food into their faces. “I paid the innkeep for tonight only, just in case we can depart soon.” 

“Sooner the better,” Clegane grunts, tucked into a chair by the shuttered window, patting Daiyu’s head lazily. Sansa is curled in her own chair very near to Clegane’s, Podrick notes, though he quickly averts his stare before Clegane notices. He is quite fond of his eyes, after all, and wishes to keep them in his skull. 

“I’d love to bathe before we’re to board a ship, if possible,” Sansa says longingly. 

“Probably wouldn’t be a terrible idea. Last good bath you’ll get until we arrive in Essos,” Jaime muses from near the fire. He reminds Podrick of a cat for true, always seeking out the warmth, emerald eyes seeming to glisten in the light from the flames. 

“We’ll send for hot water later,” Clegane acquiesces, and Sansa offers him a grin so wide that it could light the room. Podrick hopes wistfully that someone will grin at _him_ like that one day – but not Lady Sansa. Clegane would likely gut him for the thought alone, especially if the tender look in his gaze as he looks at Sansa is anything to go by. Podrick thinks he is the only one who has even noticed; Brienne is as blissfully unaware as always, and Jaime is broodingly staring into the flames, clearly lost in his own thoughts. 

“What you bloody gawking at?”

Podrick flinches. Perhaps _not_ the only one who noticed, then. Clegane is regarding him as a horse might regard a troublesome fly, and Podrick sheepishly shrugs. 

“Nothing, Ser – I mean, that is, my lo – well, I mean –“ 

His awkward stumbling over Clegane’s refusal to accept any formalities makes the man snarl, but then Sansa is giggling behind her hand, and a moment later Brienne joins in with her own hearty guffaws. Clegane’s colorful protests are lost in the sea of mirth. 

\---

The wind that is carried in off of the sea is chilly and harsh, smelling of salt and brine. Podrick pulls his cloak more tightly around his shoulders as he scurries along in Brienne’s wake, their boots thumping softly against the wooden planks beneath them.

Brienne is scouting out ships with her eyes alone, noting which seem to have recently arrived and which clearly have no intention of leaving port any time soon. Twice now she has directed him to approach captains, playing the part of an obedient squire asking after destinations for his sellsword master, though neither of the ships are going where they need.

Just when it seems they are out of luck, Podrick ambles up to the brawny captain of a tradeship, a man with a beard dyed vivid crimson and inked marks all along his arms. He regards Podrick curiously, almost warily, as the boy approaches. 

“Begging your pardons, but my lord has sent me to inquire after the destination of your ship.” He jerks his head towards Brienne, who he hopes looks enough like a bulky man from their vantage point. The captain studies her for a moment, clearly unable to distinguish that she is not, in fact, a _lord_ from where he stands. 

“Just came from Braavos to pick up cargo. Headed back there first, then to Lorath. Lookin’ for passage, lad?” 

Braavos. It is not Lys, but it _is_ Essos. He gestures to Brienne, who ambles over, studying the captain sharply. The man’s eyes glint with interest, and he chuckles. 

“Lord, eh?” He says, but does not seem terribly irritated over the lie. “Well, I was just tellin’ your squire that we’re off to Braavos mornin’ after next.” 

Brienne is silent for a moment, chewing at her lip. Podrick watches the way her brow furrows, her posture shifting, and then she nods. “Alright. How much would it be, then, for five passengers, four horses, and a hound?”

The captain’s brows skyrocket, but wisely he does not ask for details. Likely sensing that he will be carrying people desperate to be gone from Westeros, he names an outrageous price that Brienne balks at, and the two set to work bargaining while Podrick examines the ship from afar. Good. Sturdy, he thinks, as far as his knowledge of ships goes…which is admittedly not very far.

The two seem to settle upon a price at last, and they shake upon the agreement. The whole way back to the inn, Brienne grumbles to herself. 

“Bloody crook is what he was,” she is saying as they make their way through the streets. “But he’s the only one going to Essos in the near future. I imagine it will be easier to find a ship from Braavos to Lys.”

“One can only hope, my lady,” Podrick offers idly. “Will it be a terribly long journey?” 

“Oh, yes, I’d imagine so.” She sounds nearly as put out as Podrick feels, though he does not dare complain. He is being given an opportunity that he never foresaw himself having, traveling across the seas in the company of three fierce warriors and a gentle lady. Though a part of him will miss Westeros, he knows it is for the best. The Seven Kingdoms have become nothing more than a tangled web of treachery and battles for power, neither of which he has any interest in. 

Jaime is nowhere to be found when they duck back into Sansa and Brienne’s rooms, presumably having gone to rest. Sansa is seated in front of the dirty looking glass, humming to herself as she combs through the damp locks of auburn that cascade down her back. And Clegane…Podrick clears his throat and hangs back by the door at the sight of the man, freshly groomed as well, sprawled very nearly at Sansa’s feet, his head resting gently upon her lap, his breathing deep and steady. 

“He fell asleep some time ago. I hadn’t the heart to move him,” Sansa says quietly, setting her brush down gently. Podrick does not miss the blush upon her cheeks, but it is not his place to comment, and so he does not. Instead he simply watches from the shadows near the door as Sansa lays a hand softly upon the scarred flesh of Clegane’s cheek. The man wakes slowly, stretching languidly, and for a moment he does not notice Podrick and Brienne in the room. His smile is no more than a twitch of scarred lips, but it is there, hidden behind his sheer exhaustion. Sansa runs a hand swiftly through his hair once, and then the man at last notices that they are not alone, rising to his feet with a grumble – though decidedly less brutish than usual, Podrick notes gleefully.


	18. Sandor V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I am so happy to see that you guys enjoyed Podrick's chapter! I was really going for a more light-hearted feel with him, and since the last chapter was not very exciting in terms of plot events, I figured we could see it from Pod's POV. The other characters are all going through difficult times, and while  
> I love writing them, I sometimes need a little lightness to propel me onwards. Plus, I am enjoying showing SanSan developing from other people's POVs, and thought it would be cute to see it from Pod's. :)
> 
> This chapter is short, but I HAD to write it. I legitimately wrote this at work over the last few hours from my iPhone. If there are mistakes, I'll fix them when I'm home. I also hope the formatting behaves. I just couldn't resist getting all my Sandor muse out! I promise the next chapter, which will be from Jaime's POV, will show us more of Lannisport, and will also get the plot moving again. I'm bursting with inspiration, so this very well might be a double-chapter day. ;)

_Take comfort in these words_  
_You are not alone, there is a purpose_  
_Through the loneliness, depression_  
_This is not in vain_  
_Through the tribulation, find redemption_  
_This is not in vain_

Sandor bares his soul to Sansa that night.

He'd ordered hot water for her some time ago, and stepped out while she bathed. He and Jaime had sat in their shared room in silence, and by the time the little bird had finished bathing, the golden-headed fuck was snoring loudly enough to wake the whole bleeding Seven Kingdoms. Sandor had ordered his own bath to be brought up then then, not wanting to wake Jaime when the man had exhaustion written so clearly upon his features. He'd been a right pain in Sandor's arse the last few days, but the Lannister had his uses, and he was much less irritating when he was sleeping, anyways. 

He lounges in the steaming water for some time, letting the warmth soothe his protesting muscles, which have become sore and kinked after days spent tense and alert in the saddle. His hair is another matter entirely, already filthy from sweat and dirt, the water turning a gray hue when he at last dunks his head beneath. 

He emerges clean enough, pulling on his least stained clothing before striding back to check on Sansa. She'd barred the door as ordered, a growl sounding from Daiyu within, which makes him smirk with pride. Sansa warily opens the door only after Sandor murmurs that it is he, the great black hound bounding over to him for praise - but he is distracted. By the gods, Sansa looks lovely, with her hair still leaving tiny droplets of water upon her simple gown, her face free of dirt, body smelling of the lavender soap he'd bought from the servants just for her. 

He's quiet at first as he settles down far from the flames, simply watching her as she attempts to comb out the tangles from her hair. It is longer than Sandor has even seen it before, cascading freely down to her waist, the light from the low-burning fire catching in the strands, making them shine almost golden. She is luminous and captivating, and he knows that he is a bloody fool for fawning over her so, but he'd be an even greater fool if he tried to deny his attraction to her. She'd been a child in King's Landing, a chirping little chit thrown into the lion's den, where all of her fantasies had been promptly ripped from her. But her time spent in the Vale changed her, shaped her into a woman - both physically and mentally. 

She makes a frustrated little sound as she struggles to comb a stubborn knot behind her head at the base of her nape. Silently he rises, moving towards her slowly, until he looms over her chair. She is so tiny compared to him, so fragile, the elegant slope of her pale throat catching his gaze as her head tilts upwards towards him. His heart is hammering in his chest as he holds out a broad palm, and a moment later she places the comb in his hand. 

Her hair smells of lavender and cinnamon and _her_ as he lifts the silken strands, touching them gently, as if she is a scared creature likely to shy away at any moment. And would he blame her, if she did? When his hands have only ever been made for death and destruction, it seems blasphemous for them to so lovingly caress any part of the gentle little bird. But in the looking glass he sees her eyes flutter closed as he begins to comb, _trusting_ him. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat painful. She is so perfect, and he is nothing more than a scarred dog, lucky enough to have been taken into her service. If there are gods, and Sandor is still not entirely sure that there are, then they smiled upon him when they allowed him to find Sansa again. He'd been certain that she was gone forever, ripped from his grasp, and for months Sandor had spiraled down into a sea of self-loathing. For how he'd treated her. For how he'd left her. 

And now here she is, seated before him while he brushes her long, shining tresses, a serene smile upon her face. 

"Sandor?"

"Mm?" he grunts, not trusting himself to speak when his throat is still so painfully constricted. 

"Will you tell me about where you went now? After the Blackwater burned?"

So he does. 

He tells her of his trip across Westeros, his finding of Arya Stark, his fight with Beric fucking Dondarrion and the thieving Brotherhood Without Banners. He tells her of how close they came to the Twins on the night of the Red Wedding, and their subsequent flight from the slaughter. He tells her of his encounter with his brother's men, and the wound he suffered during the battle. She gasps when he tells her how Arya left him to rot beside the Trident, though he is too ashamed to tell her the awful things he said in an attempt to make her sister kill him. And he tells her of the Elder Brother, of the Quiet Isle and the peace he found there. 

Afterwards she is silent for a time, even after Sandor has finishing brushing her hair - though he remains behind her, simply running his fingers through the strands, lost in thought. And then she begins to speak, offering her own version of past events. She tells him that she did not poison Joffrey, though Sandor has always thought it unlikely anyways. She tells him of the plot between Oleanna Tyrell and Littlefucker, of her flight from King's Landing and her journey to the Vale. She tells him of her Aunt Lysa's madness and death, of the friends she made there, of her ruse and Littlefinger's uncouth behavior towards the end of her time there. One of Sandor's hands clenches at his side, rage coursing through him at the way her face tightens and her voice turns cold. Littlefinger is dead, he knows, but how he would love to break the bleeding bastard slowly for what he did to Sansa. 

And then she speaks of Gregor, and his rage is a million times worse, roaring and tearing through him like some great, wounded beast. Despair courses through him as she tells him of her journey to Clegane's Keep, her torture - both physically and mentally - at the hands of Gregor and his men. The way Gregor would loom over her bed at nights, the mummer's farce of a wedding, the scene he walked in on when he at last arrived. 

She is crying by the end, great, fat tears that roll down her pale cheeks. It hits Sandor like a fist to the gut, and he sinks down on his knees before her, blind with fury and heartbreak. "I'm sorry," he tells her, his voice a pathetic croak as he looks up into her glassy gaze. "I tried to reach you in time. I rode the horses nearly to death. I should have never left you in King's Landing. I should have died for abandoning you." He is trembling like a child as she gazes at him, his voice cracking pathetically on his last words. "I'm sorry, Little Bird."

Something in her gaze softens, and she reaches for him. "Sandor," she says, so softly, her voice that of the Maiden herself. Her tiny hands lift, one caressing the unblemished side of his cheek, and the other...

His breath hitches when her hand comes in contact with the mess of charred, gruesome flesh on his cheek. He is aware of her hand there, though he cannot feel it as he does on the other cheek. His gaze meets hers reluctantly, terrified to see what he will find there. Disgust, mayhaps loathing. But instead he sees only understanding and...and _love_ flickering in those Tully blue orbs. 

_No,_ the dormant Hound within him snarls. _You are wrong. You would not even know what love looks like, dog. And however could someone like Sansa Bloody Stark love a hideous, sickening creature like you?_

He flinches away from her touch as if burned, but she does not release him. Her body leans towards his even as his body leans away, her grasp upon his face firm but not cruel. 

"Sandor," she repeats quietly. "It is not your fault."

But it is. It is, _it is_ , just like his sister's death was his fault, just like everything Gregor took from him was his fault. The memories rise within him like a tide and he sobs, choking out words he never thought he would utter. 

He tells her of Aiana. 

He cannot remember the last time he spoke of her, but the words come pouring out now as he bows his head and lays it upon Sansa's lap. It is terribly improper, but lewdness is the furthest thing from his mind in that moment. Perhaps she knows it, for a moment later she is stroking his hair as he talks. He tells her of how his precious sister was the only one who dared to stand between he and Gregor, in the end. When Sandor's wounds were fresh and his agony raw, it was Aiana who nurtured him, who listened to his screams, who told him stories and tried to lift his spirits. And when Gregor returned from  
Casterly Rock for a visit one day, it was Aiana who had so bravely stood between he and a terrified, mewling Sandor. 

And she had died for it. She had died after Gregor had raped his - his own flesh, his own blood, _damn him_ \- and tortured her for hours. She had died screaming, with Sandor unable to do anything. He'd tried to help, but the pain had been blinding when he'd slipped from his bed, and he'd only been able to lay in a puddle of his own vomit and piss, sobbing wretchedly for the slaughter that played out before his very eyes. 

"He did it right there, in the room with me," Sandor gasps. "I looked into her eyes when she died. I saw the light leave her."

And now he looks up into a different set of eyes, broken, crushed beneath the weight of his memories. Sansa is crying again, her tears matching his own as she suddenly bends at the waist, clutching him to her. His head is pressed against her stomach and her gown is wet from his tears, but she does not seem to care, and he is too wretched in that moment to leave the comfort of her arms. 

After a moment, she begins to sing. Despite the despair that hangs heavy in the air, her voice is strong and sure. The words reach him through his fog, a lifeline that he grasps desperately at, pulling himself to shore. And she continues, stroking his hair, soothing his soul.

_The flowers I saw in the wildwood_  
_Have since dropped their beautiful leaves_  
_And the many dear friends of my childhood_  
_Have slumbered for years in their graves_

_But the bloom of the flowers I remember_  
_Though their smiles I may nevermore see_  
_For the cold, chilly winds of the winter_  
_Stole my flowers' companions from me_

Her voice is solemn as she sings, her fingertips brushing the skin at the nape of his neck. He shudders, his eyes flickering closed. It reminds him of the night the Blackwater burned, when he was terrified and demanded a song from her with steel. And just as she did the , she comforts him now, calming the storm that rages within him.

_Tis no wonder that I'm brokenhearted_  
_And stricken with sorrows should be_  
_For we have met, we have loved, we have parted_  
_My flowers' companions and me_

_How dark looks this world and how dreary_  
_When we part from the ones that we love_  
_There is rest for the faint and the weary_  
_And friends meet with loved ones above_

_For in heaven I can but remember_  
_When from earth my soul shall be freed_  
_That no cold, chilly winds of winter_  
_Shall steal my companions from me_

_'Tis no wonder that I'm brokenhearted_  
_And stricken with sorrows should be_  
_For we have met, we have loved, we have parted_  
_My flowers' companions and me_

By the end of her song, his tears have ceased, and he sits still as stone, head still resting in her lap. Some faint part of him appreciates that she didn't sing him a bloody lovers song, though he doubts that he would have stopped her if she had.

"Not the usual chirping nonsense you like," he mumbles without any real ire, his voice muffled by her skirts. He knows that he should lift his head, back away from her before Brienne and Podrick return, but the weight of living still perches on his shoulders like some great vulture, and he cannot bring himself to move. 

_Get up, dog, lest you're seen nuzzled into her skirts like a true cur,_ his thoughts hiss, but he is so tired, and the feeling of her nails against his scalp is too soothing in the wake of her song. He drifts away into darkness, with the scent and the feel of her burned into his memory for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sandor's sister is usually referred to as some form of "Eleanor" in fics, but I decided to go a different route with this one. :)
> 
> As always, thank you all so so much for your reviews, critiques, and support. You are all amazing!


	19. Jaime IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised double chapter - though a bit later than I'd hoped!

  
_Where is my spirit?_  
_I'm nowhere near it,_  
_Oh yes, my love has gone astray_  
_But I'll blame it on the sun,_  
_The sun that didn't shine,_  
_I'll blame it on the wind and the trees_  
_I'll blame it on the time that never was enough,_  
_I'll blame it on the tide and the sea,_  
_But, my heart blames it on me_

He wakes feeling more refreshed than he has in moons, which is ironic, Jaime thinks, considering that they are fleeing for their lives.

His eyelids sweep open at the sound of armor clinking, and he groans as he sits up, a deep, primal noise from deep within his chest. He does not even remember falling asleep the night before, though it is undoubtedly morning now, with strings of sunlight peeking through the dingy curtains of the inn. Podrick is huddled in one corner, trying to clean Brienne’s armor as quietly as possible, for Sandor is still slumbering in the bed opposite Jaime’s.

It’s amusing to see the massive man sprawled across a little cot, his legs dangling off the end, his mouth ajar. He is more relaxed in sleep, Jaime notes, with not a single trace of his usual ire upon his features. 

“Begging your pardons, Ser,” Podrick says quietly, and Jaime’s gaze snaps back to him. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No matter. A good thing, actually; I fear I skipped out on my bath last night. Cersei can probably smell me all the way from King’s Landing,” he grumbles, his heart giving its usual traitorous jolt at the thought of his sister. Podrick wisely does not comment, though there is the hint of a smile upon his lips as Jaime rolls to his feet, stretching slowly, languidly. His aging body gives a twang of protest, especially in his shoulders, but he ignores it as he straightens, glancing down to survey his own clothing. The very same filthy riding clothes from last night; they, coupled with his unkempt beard and messy golden hair dulled by dirt, must certainly make him seem like a different man to the once gilded, clean Kingslayer. And a good thing, he thinks as he quietly exits the room, for no one in Lannisport will immediately recognize him as Jaime Lannister – not when he looks more like a flea-bitten mutt. 

He ambles down to the common room, where the inhabitants of the inn are just beginning to wake, sluggishly keeping to themselves in their corners. Brienne is already present, he notes, tucked away by herself at a table in the corner, trying and failing not to look uncomfortable as she nibbles at her breakfast. Her forlorn expression brightens considerably when Jaime plops down in the chair across from her, stretching his legs and sighing. 

“Good morning,” she greets him, turning to wave down a serving girl, who scurries off to gather a meal for Jaime. He grunts in reply, managing to offer a meager smile so as not to seem rude. Though he is refreshed physically, his thoughts still feel sluggish, and perhaps it shows, for Brienne does not speak until the serving wench has plopped down a full trencher of food before him. Hard-boiled eggs, warm brown bread, a generous helping of hard cheese, and a side of plump figs greets him, and he sighs as he descends upon it. 

“I’d forgotten how good the food in Lannisport is,” he says between bites, reflecting on his childhood when his Lady Mother would sometimes bring he and Cersei into the gleaming city. The visits had stopped when she’d died, but Jaime has not forgotten the place. He remembers being captivated by the livelihood of the city, from the bustling port to the merchants selling expensive wares. His mother had always allowed he and Cersei to buy one bauble or treat a piece, and though Cersei usually settled for fine scraps of silk or delicate rings, Jaime had been rather fond of the hot cheese rolls or the fried dough that some merchants sold. “We have an entire day to ourselves before we board the ship tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me on a trip through the city later?”

Brienne seems startled at his request, though Jaime is not sure why. He’s tried painstakingly hard to be kind to her, to include her, for he genuinely enjoys her company – but he supposes her childhood was vastly different to his own. She is not accustomed to kindness and companionship, he reminds himself. It is something that he will have to change.

“That would be lovely. I could use a few more pairs of trousers before we go, and Podrick desperately needs more tunics. His are in shambles, though Sansa offered to mend the few that she could,” Brienne muses. “Oh, and I’ll have to ask Sansa if she needs anything. It would surely be too risky for her to tag along, though I’m sure she’ll be terribly disappointed.”

 _Aye,_ he thinks as he takes another bite of his eggs, _she will be._ He hadn’t bothered to learn much about Lady Sansa in their time spent in King’s Landing, regrettably, though he remembers Cersei commenting on her love of finery and beauty. Like any highborn maiden, he once would have assumed, with an empty head and an eye for all things dainty. But he knows now that her taste for lovely things does not suggest unintelligence; Sansa Stark is a startlingly sharp girl now that womanhood had descended upon her. _And how it suites her,_ he muses with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. He thinks her beautiful – of course he does. Any fool with eyes would. But it has become swiftly apparent to Jaime over the last few weeks that Lady Sansa is strictly off limits, if Sandor Clegane has anything to say about it. A curious pair, one that he still does not quite understand…but it is not his place to. And even if Sandor was _not_ her snarling, beloved creature, several other obstacles stand in the way of Jaime – in good conscious – attempting to pursue her. Namely, of course, the horrors that his family has wrought against hers. Already she’s been forced to endure his shit of a son, married to Tyrion against her will, and tortured by Cersei’s taunting for years. 

And Cersei. That was yet another obstacle, for how could he think fondly of _any_ woman when she’d so thoroughly shredded his heart? At the thought, he finds his gaze wandering to Brienne, who has once more flagged the tavern girl down to request meals for Sansa and Sandor. Podrick, she informs him a moment later, had risen earlier than the entire lot of them to eat. 

Her eyes are a lovely, startling shade of blue as they focus upon him, making Jaime frown. If anything, Brienne has only caused his feelings regarding to Cersei to become _more_ murky and unclear. She is unlike any woman he has ever met before, her broad body so different to Cersei’s sensual curves, her scarred face a sharp contrast to the Lionesses tawny skin and pouted lips. But Brienne is undoubtedly a woman; she has the loveliest of eyes, the softest of hair, and when she is not armored, Jaime has spotted a distinct swell of her breasts upon her chest, though they are not ample nor obnoxious. And his body…ah, his treacherous body. When they spent several nights beneath the stars together, their bedrolls placed side-by-side, it would betray him as the soft scent of her wafted to him, or the sound of her breathing reached him.

“ _Oi_. Jaime.”

She is frowning at him, and he frowns, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Ah, sorry. What was that?” 

“I asked if you’d help me carry this food upstairs, you oaf. Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, yes, just lost in thought,” he says, brushing away her concern as he stands. She frowns at him but blessedly does not further question him, and together the two return to Jaime’s room, which is now inhabited by Podrick, a bleary-eyed Sandor, a humming Sansa, and Daiyu, who has made herself comfortable upon his bed.

“Suppose it’s a good thing I’m used to traveling with hounds, eh?” He murmurs to her as he plops down beside her, earning a scathing glare from Sandor as he pats the ebony dog’s head. “Good morning to you as well, Clegane. Sleep well?”

Oddly, Sandor glances away at that, and Sansa ducks her head with a smile. Jaime’s emerald eyes narrow, bouncing back and forth between the two, though no more is said on the subject as Brienne begins conveniently questioning Podrick about needed supplies, and Sandor begins to shovel food into his mouth.

“I’d like to go with you into the city if I may, my lady,” Podrick says, and though Brienne rolls her eyes at the title, she seems to have long ago given up on correcting him. “I can help gather supplies, but truly I’d like to see Lannisport before we sail.”

“Oh, if only I could go as well,” Sansa says with a wistful sigh, and Sandor frowns, but the girl does not dare ask. “Perhaps you could bring me something back, Brienne? Whatever catches your eye.”

Brienne agrees, though she looks hopelessly lost as to what she will bring Sansa, already worrying at her lip over her task. _I’d call her adorable, if she wouldn’t strike me for it._

There is a queer contentment between the five of them, despite their various histories and pasts. Jaime has been thinking on it for days now, taking note of how Brienne speaks more comfortably with Podrick than she does with anyone else, how Lady Sansa even _smiles_ at him now despite his damned Lannister name, and how Sandor and Sansa have grown inexplicably closer, seeming to radiate towards one another at all times. It is a group of people he never would have believed himself to be fleeing Westeros with in the past; if someone had told him that he’d be aboard a ship to Essos with the Maid of Tarth, the traitor Sansa Stark, the Hound, and a lighthearted squire, he would have laughed them out of the room. 

\---

Lannisport is much as he remembers it, all gleaming white stone and bustling energy as he leads Brienne and Podrick through the streets. Jaime is bathed but not shaven, still not wishing to be recognized. He is a Lannister, after all, and they are so very close to his home. Though he is technically a free man still, word would eventually reach Cersei of where he’d been spotted, and that is the last thing he wants.

They make their way through the busy streets, the smell of fresh bread and the sounds of merchants hawking their wares swelling around them. Brienne and Podrick are enthralled by the sight of the magnificent city, so different from the stench and desperation of King’s Landing. Twice they pass by brothels where girls more tastefully clad than the ones in the King’s city call out to Podrick, who blushes and flashes them grins that make Brienne roll her eyes dramatically.

They start out near the ports, the glistening water of the bay seeming radiant beneath the light of the morning sun. Men are unloading cargo from boats, calling to one another, and piles of wares and netted mountains of fish litter the walk. The gulls circle overhead, looking for opportunities to dart in between the furious, waving arms of sailors to steal bits of fish and crabs, much to the men’s chagrin. A heavyset merchant has set up his stand near the ports, where he sells fresh oysters cracked open before the buyers eyes, slathered with vinegar and butter. Podrick, unable to help himself, buys half a dozen, and happily slurps at them as Jaime leads them deeper into the city.

To the merchant’s district they go, the streets bustling and lively, with stands every which way, selling everything from wine to silks, food to jewelry, weapons to tonics and potions. Brienne stops at a stall filled with nicely embroidered clothing to purchase tunics for Podrick, who stammers his thanks, and breeches for herself. She also snags several of the largest tunics that the man offers, Jaime notices, for Sandor – though the man did not ask for them – and an extra pair of breeches for Sansa, though she worries that the young woman will not want them.

“She’ll be grateful for them, I think, after spending several moons trying to navigate the deck of a ship in skirts,” Jaime comments, and Brienne flushes, pleased. “Is that your gift to her, then?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t decided what else to get her yet. Nothing has quite caught my eye.”

“ _Everything_ has caught my eye,” Podrick chimes in wistfully. 

“Especially those, ah, courtesans,” Jaime cannot help but mumble, much to the amusement of Brienne, though her face colors a vivid hue of pink. “Finest in the Westerlands, it’s said.”

“ _Honestly_ , Jaime, he’s just a boy,” Brienne says, exasperated, and Jaime cannot help the laugh that explodes from his chest. 

“I was much younger than he when I visited my first brothel,” he says, aiming a devilish wink in her direction. And he had been, truly; Jaime would be surprised if Podrick had not yet experienced the pleasures of a woman. The boy in question, however, seems rather inclined to keep the details to himself.

 _A good thing,_ Jaime thinks, for he’s not sure if Brienne could get much redder in the face without exploding on the spot.

After some time spent simply traveling the streets and studying wares, they pause for some time to listen to a young harper as he plucks at the strings of his instrument, solemnly singing a rendition of "The Day They Hanged Black Robin". And at last, when the sun in high in the sky, signifying noon, Jaime spots what he has been slowly leading them towards. It is a little bakery, pristine on the outside but a bit dusty on the inside when the trio step within. Still, the familiar scent of dough reaches him, making him inhale deeply as Brienne and Podrick immediately begin debating over which treat looks tastiest. There is an unfamiliar girl behind the bar, young, though she looks eerily similar to the old baker whom Jaime had used to visit during his family’s trips to the bakery. 

He orders half a dozen cheese rolls from her, and half a dozen pieces of fried dough, wrapping them carefully in his handkerchief. They are piping hot and buttery, the very smell of them making him inhale deeply, a torrent of memories flashing before his eyes. His mother, smiling as she dropped coins into the flour-covered hands of the baker. Cersei, preening over her new bit of silk or jewelry. And himself, burning his mouth as he bit into the scorching rolls, always too excited to wait.

At last Podrick has picked out a handful of breaded strawberries dusted with sugar, and Brienne has managed to secure two delicate lemon tarts for Sansa – “The last of the season,” the baker’s daughter proclaims. Brienne looks immensely proud of herself as they make their way back towards the inn, the gleam in her eyes making Jaime beam.

“She’s never going to stop thanking you for those,” he comments wryly, and Brienne grins. “An excellent find.”

Indeed, Sansa is positively radiant when Brienne presents her with the tarts some time later, her happiness seeming to ignite the entire room. Podrick in particular looks like dumbstruck fish, gaping at her with his mouth half-full of strawberries until Brienne cuffs him gently across the head. His mouth snaps closed with an audible click, his face flaming as he tucks himself as discreetly as possible into the corner.

They huddle together, the five of them, sharing their treats and doling out supplies. The cheese rolls taste just as excellent as Jaime remembered, the fried dough the same, and his stomach is full and happy when the conversation begins to lull. They have an entire evening left to spend together, but already the approaching journey seems to weigh heavily upon each of them. 

_Tomorrow,_ Jaime thinks, _I will board a ship and sail for Essos. Away from Westeros. Away from Cersei._ The thought makes his stomach clench. 

\---

They rise before the sun, quietly ensuring that all of their things are packed before they each creep down to the stables, Daiyu in tow. They’d sold the cart to the innkeeper before at a much cheaper price than it warranted. They hadn’t the time to find a different buyer, however, and it was not as if they had much use for it.

Jaime watches as Sandor carefully lifts Sansa into the saddle of her dappled palfrey, though he does not mount Stranger. Instead he leads the great black destrier alongside Sansa’s palfrey by hand, and together the group of them pick their way along the boardwalk towards the waiting ship at the end, which Brienne points out to them.

 _The Smuggler,_ it’s called, a name that makes Jaime snort. 

“Well that’s not suspicious at all,” he grumbles quietly. “We’ll likely be assaulted by pirates more times than we can count on the way to Braavos.”

Brienne frowns, as if he has personally insulted her, and he is swift to reassure her that she has done well as they approach the ship. A burly man with a beard the distinct color of blood greets them, his eyes sliding across Jaime, Sansa, and Sandor first – likely because the three of them are hooded. He wisely does not ask questions, and instead instructs several of his soldiers to begin taking their supplies below decks. 

“The lot of you will share a chamber,” he informs them. “Not ideal, aye, but there are six bunks, so you shan’t want for room. Better that way, anyways, with a little lass to watch over.” He eyes Sansa, who steps closer to Sandor, the man’s face twisting into a frown that makes the captain swiftly look away. “Name’s Cap’n Stassos. The striking warrior-woman here has already paid for the lot of you, and a generous amount, though I let her swindle me down a bit too much, perhaps. Always happy to help.”

Jaime is fairly certain that the captain did _not_ allow himself to be ‘swindled’ any lower than he wished, but he does not bother to correct the man. 

“Horses will go below board. Someone’ll show you where. The hound, I trust, will stay out from underfoot.”

“Aye,” Sandor grunts, and Stassos claps his hands together, nodding.

“Good! All aboard, then. We set sail soon.”

And that’s that. Jaime, Brienne, and Sandor spend the next few long, painstaking moments trying to coax the horses on board, while Podrick waits with Sansa, who is idly probing at her ribs, wincing occasionally. Honor is the first to at last board the ship, and Brienne’s horse is swift to follow. Stranger is considerably stubborner, bellowing as soundly as his master is cursing, until at last the surly horse cooperates and they three of them are lead below decks. They return for for Sansa’s palfrey after Podrick has helped her dismount, the dappled creature a breath of fresh air in comparison to the other horses. 

Sandor helps Sansa onto the deck first, immediately leading her below, where a sailor directs him to a room. Jaime trails behind with Brienne and Podrick in tow, not happy about being crammed in a room upon a ship, but wisely not complaining. It proves to be of considerable size, with three bunks against one wall, and three against the other. There is a little table bolted to the floor and a window squarely above it, but not much else in the way of decoration.

“How very charming,” he murmurs as he glances around, watching as his companions settle in. Sansa is given a floor bunk so that she is not forced to climb with her injuries, and Sandor takes the bunk directly across from hers, likely to keep an eye on the girl. Brienne climbs into the bunk above Sansa, with Podrick above _hers_ , leaving Jaime to claim the bunk above Sandor. Daiyu is panting restlessly, pacing the room with her tongue lolling from her mouth, something that Jaime anticipates will swiftly become irritating if the dog does not settle.

“You’re not to go above to the deck unless you have one of us with you,” Sandor is saying to Sansa, his voice low. Sound advice; while Sandor was busy wrestling with his wretched mount, Jaime’s sharp gaze had studied the faces of the sailors, watching how many of their gazes had lingered upon Sansa’s shapely form beneath her gown. They would all have to be diligent in the coming days when it came to looking after the girl.

After several moments, the shouting of sailors and the rocking of the ship signifies that they are sailing. Jaime stands, stretching languidly as he strolled over to the sole window, watching as Lannisport slowly but surely fades from view. Only when it is a speck on the horizon doe he turn towards his companions, flashing him his most winning smile.

“Well,” he says. “We’re off, then.”

For better or for worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, due to a review questioning when smut will occur, this is a _slow burn_. I simply can't imagine Sandor and Sansa jumping straight into smut when a) they are not somewhere safe and b) Sansa is still injured. Realistically ribs take time to heal, especially when broken by a man like Gregor. I know it's slow-going, but I promise there will be smut-aplenty in later chapters, when it makes more sense. Thank you for those of you that have stuck with me. :)


	20. Brienne I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the long-awaited Brienne chapter! :D I actually realized today that there are only around 10ish chapters from Brienne's POV in AFFC, so it took me less time that I thought to skim through in my attempt to get a feel for her. It also gave me muse for this chapter, so yay!
> 
> As promised, shenanigans ensue.

  
_I’ve had the highest mountains_   
_I’ve had the deepest rivers_   
_You can have it all but life keeps moving_   
_I take it in but don’t look down_   


Brienne has never seen someone become seasick quite as swiftly as Podrick does.

Only moments after they’ve sailed, he is green-faced and retching, kneeling pathetically on the deck of _The Smuggler_. The sailors chortle and tease, but they are swift to bring the poor lad tea with a generous helping of ginger mixed in, and though Brienne struggles not to laugh at the repulsed look on his face when he drinks it, it at least helps him stop vomiting for a time.

The worst part of their journey, as Brienne swiftly discovers as the days pass slowly, is that they are forced to share close-quarters. She knows that it cannot be helped, and that she should be grateful that they are at last spiriting Sansa away from danger – and she _is_. But Brienne has never been particularly comfortable with herself, not in the least, and the added knowledge that at any moment one of the men could burst in while she is in a state of immodesty makes her skittish. It is bad enough that she has to _sleep_ with the lot of them, which is strange in itself, though she is not sure why. Sleeping beneath the stars in bedrolls simply did not seem so personal as sleeping in beds with only planks of wood separating them - especially when Sansa, Sandor, and sometimes even Jaime were prone to night terrors.

“No bloody bar on the door,” she’s murmuring scathingly one morning, a bit over a week after they set sail. She is partially undressed after she and Sansa, who is humming softly behind her, took the opportunity to bathe themselves to the best of their abilities. It is a sorry excuse for a bath, Brienne thinks; they’d both shared water from the single small bucket one of the sailors had brought them, and shared a bar of scentless soap as well. _At least we were given our own separate cloths to scrub with,_ she thinks grumpily. Time spent in such tight quarters is driving her mad – and they still have nearly two moons to go. 

“Is it common to have barred doors on ships?” Sansa asks curiously. Brienne turns to look at her, still unable to fight the way her cheeks turn pink at the sight of Sansa clad only in her smallclothes. It’s nothing she should be ashamed of, really – it’s just that Brienne is not used to allowing others to see her own body, even women. She’d loathed her body so much that she’d been careful in her past to bathe only when others had finished where bathhouses were involved, and so she’d never experienced the comfortable comradery that enabled females to undress before each other without batting an eye.

Sansa, for her part, does not seem to care one way or another how Brienne’s body looks. She’s never even seen the highborn lady cast a glance at her form, which Brienne is endlessly grateful for. She knows that Sansa is far too polite to gawk and sneer, but the fact of the matter is that Sansa is _beautiful_ , and Brienne is…well, not. She does not have womanly curves, or soft creamy skin, or a comely shape. It’s something she’s resented for as long as she can remember, though being able to best even the cockiest of men on the battlefield certainly lessens the ache.

“No, not terribly common,” she answers at last, seeing Sansa nod as the redhead begins to tug on the breeches Brienne purchased for her. She’s extremely happy to see that Sansa has found them useful, as Jaime assured her she would. “There are not many women who make a regular habit of sailing, after all. Especially not on trade ships such as this.” She pauses to sigh. “But still, a woman can dream.”

The two of them continue to dress in silence, with Sansa tugging on a tunic that Podrick had gifted her to go along with her leggings. It is a bit too long on her, having been made to suit Podrick’s growing form, but Brienne thinks that it is a good thing, for the edge of the tunic helps to cover a bit more of Sansa’s shapely hips. The very thought of the day that Jaime quietly pulled her aside to inform her, quite graphically, of _why_ she needs to keep a close eye on Sansa makes Brienne’s blood boil. And he was right; Brienne began to watch the sailors closely afterwards, noticing how their gazes lingered on Sansa’s form even beneath her large skirts. No amount of snarling and cursing from Sandor, or threatening glowers from Brienne seemed to dissuade them.

Stassos, for the most part, had only shrugged his shoulders when Brienne had brought up the issue. “They’re men, m’lady, who spend the majority of their lives on the sea without a lass in sight. What d’you expect? I can scold them, aye, but won’t stop a thing, I guarantee it.” 

Despite this, the captain seemed to be on deck as much as possible in the days following their chat, his keen gaze keeping his men busy – and keeping their eyes, for the most part, off of Sansa.

But the man – a Tyroshi by birth, Brienne had been told by a sailor – could not always be around, and so Sansa’s protection was left up to Brienne and the men of their strange little party. Brienne felt strangely torn when it came to her feelings on the matter; on one hand, she felt almost _envious_ that men looked at Sansa with such obvious desire. But then thinking such thoughts made her feel guilty, for she knew that Sansa did not want lewd, gawking eyes following her every movement. Turmoil ran rampant for some time within Brienne before at last giving way to one feeling and one alone: protectiveness. 

She had failed at protecting Renly, a thought that makes her eyes sting. She’d failed at protecting Lady Catelyn, too. But Brienne will _not_ fail Sansa – of this, she is gravely certain. Not only had she sworn an oath to find and protect the girl, but she’d found that Sansa was her _friend_ …and Brienne has never had a friend before, not truly. Not one like Sansa. 

“You know quite a lot about ships,” Sansa notes, and Brienne nods.

“Yes. Tarth, as you know, is situated in the stormlands, where a general knowledge of ships is common. That, paired with the fact that Tarth is an island, ensured that I learned a thing or two concerning sailing. Quite enjoyed it, actually.”

Sansa nods. “This is only my second time upon a ship. I’m surprised I’m not retching right alongside poor Podrick.”

Brienne grins at the image of the two kneeling over the railing together for the majority of the journey. She settles near the door once she’s strapped her sword belt on, arms folding over her chest as she watches Sansa braid her fiery tresses. “A good thing, then.”

Sansa only hums in reply, and for some time there is silence, with Brienne left to her thoughts. She can see the sun beginning to set from the little circular window, signaling that dinner will be soon – not that it is anything to look forward to. Salted fish and broths along with hard bread makes up the majority of their meals, and Brienne has long since grown tired of it, though she does not dare complain. She is thankful that there is food in her belly at all. 

“Brienne?” Sansa asks, fiddling with a silk ribbon brought with her from Clegane’s Keep, a sleek ebony in coloration. 

“Yes?” It is difficult for her not to tack on an automatic ‘my lady’, despite the many days Sansa has spent correcting her for doing just that. _Friends. We are friends. She said I may call her Sansa._ The memory is precious to her.

“Doesn’t your horse have a name?”

Brienne blinks, pausing in brief confusion. “A name? Well, no. Why d’you ask?”

“It’s just that earlier, Podrick was feeling well briefly, and he escorted me down to the holding area to feed the horses with him. I was thinking about how I haven’t named my palfrey, and I realized you hadn’t named your horse either, is all. There’s Stranger, and Honor…I suppose I thought it was a bit sad that ours did not have names, too.”

“I’ve never been good at thinking up clever names,” Brienne admits. She’d never been able to name her mounts or pets without long periods of deliberation in the past, and that certainly has not changed. “But I suppose you’re right; I should call her something. I’ll have to think on it.”

Sansa nods. “I’ve been thinking about Jonquil, for my palfrey. Sandor will just _adore_ it,” she says, her lips twitching into a devious smile. Brienne tilts her head, puzzled at why Sandor Clegane would favor a name from a romantic tale, but before she can question Sansa on the matter, a knock sounds on the door. Brienne shifts, reaching for the handle and tugging to reveal Jaime beyond, his brows twitching skywards. 

“We were beginning to wonder if you two had drowned yourself in that bucket,” he says, “or, more likely, if you’d decided to mutiny and kick us from the rooms.”

“We would never dream of doing such a thing, Ser,” Sansa says sweetly from where she perches on her bunk, though something about the gleam in her eyes suggests playfulness, a sight that makes Brienne grin.

“Oh, yes, mock us now,” Jaime says as he ducks into the room, shortly followed by a grumbling Sandor. “But when you both wake in the hall tomorrow and find your bunks pushed in front of the door, don’t come mewling to me.”

“You wouldn’t be able to lift me in my sleep,” Brienne scoffs, and Jaime’s only response in a cheeky grin that makes her innards curl in the queerest of ways. That damned smile of his always stuns her, like looking directly into the rays of the sun. 

“Where’s Podrick?” Sansa asks.

“Vomiting again,” says Sandor from his own bunk, which he throws himself upon none-too-gently, the wood groaning in protest beneath him. “Surprised he has anything in him to chuck. Probably just his innards at this point.” 

Sansa’s nose scrunches at the visual, and Brienne cannot help but roll her eyes. She has no qualms with Sandor, but the man is positively brutish even in speech, and she cannot see how a gentle lady like Sansa is not horrified by the things that he says. 

“He’s practically eating ginger by the root at this point, poor lad,” Jaime chimes in, though Brienne notices he looks a bit on the pale side himself. She frowns, finding that she is _worried_ for him, though realistically she knows that it is likely only an extremely mild case of seasickness – especially compared to Podrick’s symptoms. As if he senses her thoughts, Jaime glances towards her, those vivid emerald eyes narrowed to heavy-slidded slits, the look almost…sultry. 

The fact that she notices alarms her. She’s been told time and time again that she is oblivious, much to her chagrin, but the _look_ in those eyes is certainly unmistakable. 

_Or is it?_ she frets, cheeks heating. _It’s not if I know anything about these things. Perhaps I’m just making an ass of myself and wishing for dragons when I only have lizards._

“I’ll go check on him,” she offers, feeling suddenly as if she needs air. Before Jaime can say a word, she turns and noisily strides from the room, the loud thumping of her boots against the floor not quite loud enough to drown out her thoughts. 

\---

The first – but certainly not the last – uncomfortable situation occurs a fortnight into their travels. They’ve feasted upon a fine dinner for once, with Stassos having allowed their more precious stores to be cooked. It is still salted pork, but it is at least seasoned and served alongside preserved fruits and vegetables, which taste so delicious after their time on the seas that Brienne forces herself to eat slowly, to savor. 

When they are all full, with even Podrick having managed to eat a decent share, his color significantly improved, they lounge upon the decks beneath the light of a full, fat moon. Sansa is propped against the side of a cargo box, with furs from their bags piled high around her, courtesy of Sandor’s insistence. He himself is seated beside her, his head tipped back, eyes closed. In turn, Sansa is resting against his shoulder, her deft fingers weaving a needle in and out, in and out, of one of Jaime’s tunics. Brienne stands to the side watching the two for a bit, happy to see Sansa’s smile after the horrors that she has endured. She is healing, slowly but surely, Brienne has noticed. She can go longer periods of time without her ribs shortening her breathing, or without her head spinning – though Brienne cannot say whether or not Sansa is healing _inside_. She can only hope that Sandor Clegane, rough and uncouth as he is, might possibly be the remedy to end Sansa’s suffering. 

Sometime later, when Sansa is practically falling asleep, Sandor gestures for Brienne to help the girl down below the deck before disappearing off towards the stern, presumably to speak to Stassos, who is roaring at some story that a soldier is telling. Likewise, a quick scan of the ship as Brienne helps Sansa towards the stairs reveals that Podrick is playing a game of cards with a lad near enough to his age, and Jaime is huddled near the bow, sharpening his dagger with admirable efficiency considering his lack of a hand. 

Sansa’s hand flits up to cover her mouth, and she yawns as they enter their chambers, the door shutting behind them. “I didn’t even realize I was so very tired,” she says, kneeling to carefully tuck the half-stitched tunic back into her bags, extracting a long, modest nightgown in turn. She stands and begins to peel off her tunic and breeches, moonlight streaming through the little window, catching in the fiery strands of her hair. 

“Will you need help with your gown?” Brienne asks as she busies herself with unlacing her boots. 

“Yes, this one has ties at the nape and the small of my back,” Sansa says, holding up the nightgown and wrinkling her nose. “Is it terribly vain of me to be disappointed that everything I own is so very ugly? Practical, and I’m thankful for it. But ugly.”

Brienne laughs, the sound echoing in the room. “Can’t say I blame you, after seeing the delicacies you’re used to donning.”

A little frown pulls at Sansa’s lips, a furrow appearing between her brows. “Oh, I _do_ sound vain! It’s just that…well, I know this is so terribly improper, but I can’t help but think of how nice it would feel to look beautiful in front of…”

She trails off, her cheeks a curious shade of red. Brienne pauses in the middle of removing her left boot, brows raising at what she sees on Sansa’s face. Brienne has never engaged in ribald japes or giggled secrets with ladies, but even _she_ cannot resist flashing Sansa a knowing grin. “Clegane?”

Sansa laughs at that, a soft, mirthful giggle that makes Brienne’s heart warm. “To think that I’m sitting here, discussing such things! My Septa is rolling in her grave right now, I’ll wager that. And how dare you tease me about Sandor, when you can hardly keep your eyes off of Ser Jaime!”

Her voice has lowered to a conspiratorial murmur, her gaze gleaming with mischief as Brienne’s heart seems to stutter, her own cheeks flaming now. Still, she cannot help but smile sheepishly, not bothering to deny the accusation. This was what friends do, isn't it? Talk about their lives and their feelings, who has their hearts…

Still, Brienne cannot dive headfirst into such acts, not when she has spent all of her life being excluded from them. Her voice is gentle when she says, “Put your gown on, before you catch chill, and then Clegane will wring my neck as if it’s my fault.”

Sansa grins, lifting the nightgown to comply, when suddenly the door flies open, and the pair of them freeze.

Podrick comes breezing in, his eyes upon the cup of ginger tea in his hands. “Can’t believe I let him beat me _twice_ \- “ he is saying, but suddenly he glances up and freezes at the sight before him. Sansa, standing like some ethereal creature in the light of the moon, clad in only her lacy ivory smallclothes, her hair gleaming like fire. There is a moment, a fraction of a second, where no one moves. And then all of a sudden, the world explodes into pandemonium. 

Sansa gasps and holds up her nightgown in an attempt to cover herself as Brienne leaps up, growling a furious “ _Podrick Payne!_ ” The poor boy is stammering like mad, unable to get a single word out, rooted to the spot with his eyes as wide as saucers. He has turned the most alarming shade of reddish-purple that Brienne has ever seen, she notes as she lunges towards him, pushing him backwards from the room – and right into the looming figure of Sandor Clegane.

There is murder in the man’s eyes as he takes in the sight before him, his gaze lingering on Sansa for a moment before curses begin to fly from his scarred mouth, aimed at Podrick. The poor boy ducks and attempts to flee, with Sandor cuffing him roughly across the ears the entire time, branding him as a ‘ _thrice-damned buggering fool who doesn’t know how to bleeding knock, damn you_ ’, and from behind the pair of them, Brienne catches a glimpse of Jaime, doubled over in near-hysterical laughter. 

Sansa lets out a little mortified squeak as Brienne slams the door shut loudly enough to wake the dead, and there is silence in the room – though the roars of Sandor, Jaime’s laughter, and Podrick’s frantic apologies can be heard from outside. Brienne’s gaze meets Sansa’s…and then suddenly the two of them are laughing, great, loud peals of mirth that have both of them gasping for air.


	21. Sansa VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> Firstly, I'd like to apologize for how long it's taken me to get this posted. Three days feel like so long when I'm used to updating almost daily. My mother had surgery a few days ago, and so things have been a bit crazy, with all of us fretting over her and caring for her. It wasn't a horribly major surgery [she had implants yeeears and years ago, one of which ruptured], but she is 69 years old, and so we were all worried about her. Because of this, I haven't had as much time to write as usual. I also had to write this chapter in portions instead of all at once, as I'm accustomed to doing...so if it's choppy or bleh, I'm sorry.

  
_All you have is your fire_  
_And the place you need to reach_  
_Don't you ever tame your demons_  
_But always keep 'em on a leash_  


Life upon _The Smuggler_ settles into a boring routine.

Sansa wakes each morning curled beneath the blankets of her bunk, rising with the others, where they alternate on who gets to bathe first while whichever gender is excluded goes to scarf down a mundane breakfast of hard bread and cheese. She bathes as much as she can with only a bucket and a cloth, wraps her ribs, dresses herself in whatever has been recently washed and dried, and mixes a spoonful of the medicine Maester Asten instructed her to take for her head into bland tea. 

Her knuckles, blessedly, have healed. They are stiff and unyielding when she first takes the bandages off, twinging in pain when she makes her fingers bend a fraction too far, but while time her hand regains full usage. Her ribs ache less and less with each day, though many of her fondest memories still evade her, something that stings harshly.

After breaking their fast, Brienne typically takes to the deck to spar with Podrick, who takes a thorough thrashing each time but puts up a valiant effort. Sometimes Sandor and Jaime will join in, drawing a small crowd of sailors to watch the fearsome warriors. Sansa’s time is spend sewing beneath the sun when the autumn days are not terribly chilly, playing Podrick – whom has been excessively polite and cautious since the bruises from Sandor’s cuffing have faded – at cards, and throwing a sewed bit of stuffed cloth across the deck for poor Daiyu, who has become excessively restless on board.

They sup together, usually on a fish stew, and then retreat to their chambers, where they talk and plan for a while before each of them settle down to sleep. And then the next day they repeat it again, and again, and Sansa thinks that she is going mad.

And then one morning, as if her boredom has cursed them, a cry sounds from the sailor situated in the crow’s nest above. Sansa is sitting in a pile of furs watching Sandor and Brienne spar when suddenly everyone freezes in place. Captain Stassos comes rushing from his cabin, just as the man in the rigging above leans down, calling, “A ship, Cap’n! Headed straight our way.”

Stassos begins barking orders, sailors hastening to obey as Jaime suddenly appears at Sansa’s side, helping her to her feet. Her heart is pounding heavily in her chest as they approach where Stassos stands, speaking to Brienne and Sandor. 

“Might be nothin’, don’t worry just yet,” he says. “’Nother tradeship passin’, mayhaps.” 

“But mayhaps not,” Brienne says quietly, and Stassos nods, grim.

“We see pirates sometimes, when we’re far out to the sea like we are now. Still, nothing we can’t handle. I’d suggest getting the lady below decks, just in case.”

Suddenly Sandor is there before her, a looming wall of muscle and ire, and yet he handles her so gently as lifts her chin with one finger, gray eyes meeting blue. “Go below with Podrick,” he rasps quietly. “The boy’s no knight yet, but he’s good enough with a sword. Take this.”

He passes a dagger to her, the hilt cool and unfamiliar in her palm. She wraps her slender fingers around it, fighting back the panic that threatens. “Sandor, what if something happens? What if you-“

“It’ll be alright, Little Bird. Might be nothing at all.” His gaze gleams with things unsaid as he leans down, placing a feather-light kiss to her forehead, gentle as the brush of a wing. “Do not come out until Jaime, Brienne or I come for you, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she whispers, hating the way she feels as if this is somehow goodbye. But there is no time to say more as she’s suddenly being passed into Podrick’s care, the boy seeming too intent upon her safety to blush as he normally might. Together they descend down to their chambers, Daiyu hot on their heels, where Podrick situates himself nearest to the door, his hand upon the hilt of his sword. It is nowhere near the length or bulk of Sandor’s, but it is a sword for true, and Sansa knows that it will matter little how impressive it is when it is cleaving through a man’s innards. 

She paces beneath the porthole, wringing her hands and caring little for how unladylike she must look in that moment, hair wild and worry clear upon her features. Podrick simply watches her, though his eyes are unseeing, his attention focuses on the sudden silence upon the deck above.

Through the thick wooden ceiling, it is difficult to hear, but snatches of voices reach them. They sound tense, Sansa notes with dismay, and then suddenly there is a great shout, a thump, and the deck descends into a riot of noise.

She squeezes her eyes shut as cold dread slithers down into her belly. She has lost everything, _everyone_ , and now it is as if the world is mocking her, threatening to rip everyone she cares for away from her again. 

“My lady,” Podrick says quietly, perhaps intending to comfort her, but she is beyond it. She does not answer as she continues to pace, back and forth, back and forth, her frantic steps matching the beating of her little heart. Every ring of steel makes her grit her teeth, and despite the way her head spins at her rapid, irritated movements, she continues to pace until she stumbles. Podrick leaps forward, taking her arm gently to lower her onto her bunk, taking note of her rapidly rising and falling chest.

“Breathe, my lady,” Podrick murmurs. “It looked to be a small boat, from what I saw. The sailors outnumber their foes, I think. And…and we have Clegane, Lady Brienne, _and_ Ser Jaime assisting. We’ll be alright, I prom-”

Suddenly, from her place at the end of Sansa’s bunk, Daiyu growls.

There is the thundering of footsteps on stairs, and Podrick leaps up, drawing his sword as Sansa reaches for Sandor’s dagger. Daiyu is on her paws now, the sweet, gentle hound Sansa came to know gone. She is all bristled fur and flashing teeth, and when the door is suddenly thrown open with a loud bang, the hound does not hesitate. She leaps.

A lanky man stands there leering with sword in hand, missing several of his teeth – but his grin swiftly disappears as Daiyu latches onto his sword arm. Blood splatters as she rips and tears, guttural snarls tearing from her throat as the man screams curses and begins raining blows upon the hound’s head with his left fist. But Daiyu is determined, flesh splitting open beneath her clamped jaws as she mangles his arm, until at last the man pulls a dagger from his belt to stab her – 

Sansa screams in warning, visions of Lady’s death flashing before her eyes. _No, no, please, she was only protecting me, she’s innocent, please._ She is a child again, the dagger in her hand forgotten. 

But before the stinking man can harm the hound, Podrick has lunged forward, his sword slipping around Daiyu’s steadfast form to sink into the man’s side. He freezes, sword and dagger clattering from his hands, eyes widening. As if sensing his impending death, Daiyu lunges backwards, still snarling as she takes her place before Sansa. But the man is a threat no longer; he falls to the floor with a thump, his blood pooling around him.

Time seems to freeze as Sansa sinks to her knees, a sob escaping her throat as she wraps her arms around the wary hound. Her eyes fill with tears as she looks up at Podrick, who looks stunned by his own actions. “Podrick. _Thank you._

Before he can answer, the sound of footsteps echoes again, and the three of them freeze…but it is Sandor who ducks through the door, breathing hard, tunic splattered with the blood of his enemies. He looks to the dead man, the blood on Podrick’s sword, the crimson flecks drenching Daiyu’s muzzle. And then his eyes find Sansa, rooting her to the spot as she trembles. 

His pupils are dilated as he steps over the corpse, giving it a vicious kick as he does so. And then suddenly he is there beside her, pulling her to her feet and into his arms, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. Before Sansa can think, before she can even move, he is tipping her chin back and bending, their mouths meeting so suddenly that she gasps, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth, caressing her own. The feel of his mouth is peculiar, one side rough and one side smooth, his beard tickling her skin as she yields to him, winding her arms around his neck. She must stretch on her tiptoes to reach him even with him bending down, which strangely thrills her; he is so tall, so broad, so _masculine_ , and some primal part of her purrs at the realization. 

His hands are on her waist, so large and wide that his fingers nearly touch along her spine, and though he could crush her to him, he is surprisingly gentle, seeming to remember her healing ribs even when his blood is up. She has practically melted against him, his arms the only thing holding her up, and gods, she didn’t know that it would feel like _this_ , all fire and lightening and – 

There is the sound of a pointed cough, and Sandor tears away, turning with a snarl towards the door. But it is only Podrick, sheepishly staring at the ground, and Jaime – who leans in the doorway, eyebrows raised. Sandor and the Lion stand staring at each other for a long moment, and then suddenly Sandor turns to take Sansa’s face in his. 

“Are you hurt?” He rasps.

She is still stunned from the kiss, her mind working sluggishly, but after a moment she shakes her head. “N-no. Podrick…he and Daiyu killed the man before he could so much as look at me.”

At that Sandor releases her fully, and she keenly feels the loss of his strong warmth. She still has not managed to process the ordeal – everything from the moment she was ushered below deck feels like a blur. 

“Just a small band of pirates,” Jaime comments, answering Sansa’s unasked questions. “They were easy enough to take care of – though I suppose one slipped past us.” He glances towards the corpse on the floor as Sandor strides across the room to stand before Podrick, who blushes bright red. 

But the words that come from Sandor are not cruel. “Thank you.” He speaks so quietly that Sansa at first wonders if she’s heard him correctly. Podrick, still flushed, simply nods, clearly at a loss for words as Sandor turns back to face Sansa. 

“Need to go help Brienne and the others throw bodies overboard,” he grunts, though he seems reluctant to part until Jaime volunteers to stay and look after her – along with Daiyu, who plops down, clearly not willing to leave. With one last long, searing gaze, Sandor turns and strides from the room, Podrick hot on his trail, still looking markedly dazed.

Sansa wishes that she had a moment to reflect upon the kiss, the feelings that rage through her, the _desire_. But Jaime is looking at her so pointedly that she can think of little else. “Is there something you wish to say, Ser?”

His lips twitch in amusement at her stabbing tone, but he inclines his head. “Actually, there’s something I wish to _ask_. Something that’s been weighing on me heavily for some time. Did you poison my son, Lady Sansa?”

She is momentarily stunned by his frankness, though she recovers swiftly enough, schooling her face into the courtly mask that she wore for so very long in King’s Landing. She thinks that he may notice, for his emerald gaze sharpens, but when she speaks her voice is steady. “I did not poison Joffrey; that I will swear to you upon all that I love. It was a plot constructed by Lady Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish.” She pauses, her mask slipping for a moment, the foundation cracking to reveal a sliver of pain at the memories that flash through her head. 

Joffrey. Her first tormentor alongside his mother – before Gregor, before Brenn and Marak, before Petyr. Belatedly she realizes that Jaime has just admittedly that Joffrey is his own; she supposes it is not exactly a secret anymore, though. 

“Lady Olenna came to me before the wedding, expressed her condolences, _made me believe that she was sorry for my loss_ ,” the last words are bitter, unladylike, and yet Sansa’s blazing gaze meets Jaime’s nonetheless as hurt stabs through her. “She knew. Petyr had Ser Dontos give me a hairnet – a lovely hairnet with poison in the pearls. She straightened it and before I knew what was happening, Joffrey was…”

She trails off, sucking in a deep breath. Jaime has not moved, his arms folded across his chest as he watches her. After a long minute, he simply nods.

“Joffrey was my son by blood – but not by heart. I was never allowed to be his father, not truly. Cersei was always afraid that we would be discovered if I spent too much time with any of the children. But when he began to show signs of madness, I heard. Tommen’s kittens would go missing, and turn up drowned or skinned. Joff would always have the cruelest gleam in his eyes when Tommen cried over it. I tried to straighten him out, but there was only so much I could do from afar…” Jaime trails off, shuddering, and instinctively Sansa moves forward as if to comfort him. But he takes a swift step backwards, smiling wryly. 

“Come now,” he says, something in his eyes making her pause. “Let’s discuss something less dreadful while I find someone to take care of this corpse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s estimated that fractured/broken ribs take about 6 weeks to heal. If I’ve been keeping up with time correctly, it has been about 4, nearly 5, weeks since the night Sansa’s were broken. We’ll give it a little more than 6 weeks since Gregor’s brute strength probably didn’t do her poor ribs any favors. Still, our girl is getting better! 
> 
> Also, as a fair warning to prepare you all, the next chapter is from Cersei's POV.


	22. Cersei II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the kindness and well-wishes regarding my mother. She is doing much, much better, though still very sore and tired. But she is making a fast recovery!
> 
> I struggled getting this chapter started, but once the first line was out, it all just came pouring forth! I'm so anxious to get back to Sansa and Sandor now that I've had them kiss, buuuut I knew that we needed to see what was going on in King's Landing, too...so here we are.
> 
> Mentions of torture, though they are very vague.

  
_I've spent a lifetime_  
_planning your destruction_  
_You'll never witness another day_  
_Oh, how long I've waited_  


Cersei Lannister receives the letters only an hour apart. 

Grand Maester Pycelle brings her the first just as she has finished dining in the hall with Tommen, the Tyrell whore, and the vast majority of her insufferable family – Lady Olenna, Ser Loras, and Mace Tyrell (whom had arrived a week prior) included. She is full upon a grand meal of succulent roasted swan, mussels swimming in butter and garlic, poached eggs, honey glazed parsnips, and sweet fig rolls slathered in honeyed butter. She’d eaten a little of each course, but she’d consumed more Dornish red than anything, silently stewing in her irritation as the table around her blathered on. She can hardly stand to watch Tommen make moon eyes at Margaery over his desert, or listen to Mace boom about his precious heir, whom tries to look humbled but only succeeds in making himself look like a smirking, pompous ass.

So when Pycelle comes through the doors, huffing and puffing with a scroll in his hand, Cersei thinks that she does not even care what the news is – as long as it gets her away from this damned table.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle murmurs as he approaches the high table, practically tripping over his robes in his haste. His wrinkled, trembling hand reaches for her, and she plucks the scroll from his fingers without touching his repulsive skin. “This arrived moments ago – from your uncle at Casterly Rock.” 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Cersei says to the group of prying Tyrell eyes that have fallen upon her, like begging dogs soon to begin salivating at any moment. She rises with as much grace as she can muster, though she totters a bit from the wine, her golden skirts swirling around her ankles as she strides from the room. She hears the sound of footsteps behind her, and her sharp emerald gaze flits over her shoulder, daring one of the Tyrell’s to follow in her wake – but it is only two guards peeling away from the wall to shadow her. They are silent besides the creaking of their armor for the entire walk to her solar. 

She shuts herself inside promptly, barring the door. Before she can bother with the missive – likely only another report from her stuffy uncle Kevan – she moves to pour herself a goblet of Dornish red from where the jug rests on her desk. She knows that she has become a bit _rounder_ due to her increased consumption, her waist not quite as trim, her stomach softer, but she cannot bring herself to care. Not when the wine is the only thing that keeps her from slitting the throat of the insolent Tyrell slut, with her doe eyes and soft, simpering voice. A poor, pathetic act that Tommen has effortlessly fallen for; the girl has enchanted him, ensnared him from the moment their betrothal was announced. And though Cersei had harbored hope that he would tire of fawning over her after their wedding, after he had bedded the little harlot, it had proven to be in vain. He is still painfully in Margaery’s grasp. 

_Such a meek, biddable boy,_ she thinks as she sinks into the plush chair behind her desk, peeling back the Lannister seal of wax upon the letter. _So unlike Joffrey._ Joffrey would never have let Margaery Tyrell control him, and Cersei’s heart clenches painfully at the memory of him. Her sweet, precious boy, gone – taken from her by the Stark bitch and her deplorable monster of a brother. Her lip curls in amusement, though, as she reflects upon the orders given to Ser Gregor moons ago – given from this very chair. It is troublesome that he has not yet responded to her request for a report, but that is something she will worry about later.

Unfolding the parchment, she takes another sip from her goblet before her eyes begin to scan the letter.

_Queen Mother Cersei Lannister,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well, dearest niece. I have been particularly busy at Casterly Rock, but peculiar news has reached me here – news that I believe would be best for you to hear, though I am not certain that it is quite important enough to bother His Majesty the King with._

_During our last conversation, regrettably so long ago, you informed me that Ser Jaime Lannister had been sent upon a sensitive diplomatic mission. A long-winded one indeed, I would think, considering that he still has not returned to King’s Landing. However, word has reached me from Lannisport’s guards that a man whom curiously matched Ser Jaime’s description was seen entering the city nearly half a moon ago, looking worse for wear; something that does not scream your twin, to be sure, though the guards assured me that he was the very same - missing his sword hand and all. I find it difficult to believe that Ser Jaime would have diplomatic business in Lannisport, as it quite clearly harbors very firm allegiance to the Crown._

_Perhaps this news is not truly news to you. I simply wished to serve the Crown, and to inform you of any questionable activity on the part of your twin._

_Best,  
Lord Kevan Lannister_

Cersei’s fist has clenched so tightly around the stem of her goblet that her knuckles are bone white. She can practically hear her uncle’s scathing tone bleeding through the paper, and it rankles her as he surely intended – but more pressing is the fact that her brother has been spotted in Lannisport.

Cersei is loath to admit such, but she has been infuriatingly unaware of Jaime’s true whereabouts since his abrupt departure from King’s Landing. Would that she could reach out across the withering bond that they share and beckon him home so that he may rightfully face her fury…

Yet it is not possible, and now her wine-addled thoughts spin. What reasoning would he have to venture to Lannisport? 

She does not have to wonder for long.

A knock sounds upon her chamber door, and she rises too swiftly, head spinning as she strides to answer. Her fury builds, as if it will be Jaime on the other side of that door, as if she can lash out and strike him for daring to leave her – 

But when she unbars the door and yanks it open, Pycelle stands quivering before her, and she snarls, _”What?”_

He holds up another missive, stuttering about its arrival from the Westerlands. She snatches it from him, practically ripping the letter in the process, slamming the door upon his blabbering. Her breasts rise and falling rapidly within the constrains of her corset as she glances down to the wax seal, expecting to see the lion of Lannister again – but instead she is met with the brindled boar of House Crakehall. Her brows furrow; why, she wonders, is a noble house from the Westerlands writing to _her_? Surely the Lannister bannermen would know to write to Tommen instead. 

Peeling the letter open, she frowns, gaze flitting across the parchment.

_Queen Mother Cersei Lannister,_

_I imagine that receiving this missive is alarming, or perhaps confusing. I write this in great haste, with hopes that it reaches you swiftly. Just a night prior to my_ _construction of this letter, my nephew Brenn Crakehall returned to us after spending much time in the party of Ser Gregor Clegane. Brenn is the son of my deceased brother,_ _Burton, and very dear to me. He implored that I write you immediately, to inform you that Clegane’s Keep may very well have been sacked. Brenn claims that he was_ _unable to approach the Keep due to suspicious circumstances, and fears that Ser Gregor may no longer hold control._

_Regards,_  
_Roland Crakehall_

She is trembling by the time she has finished. Jaime seen in Lannisport, Clegane’s Keep potentially raided, and the Stark girl…

She wastes no time. Striding to her desk, she descends upon her blank parchment with scarcely contained fury, writing to Kevan Lannister – imploring him to send Casterly Rock’s finest regiment of men to Clegane’s Keep, informing him that they are to report their findings directly to her…and giving the regiment permission to discover what occurred at Clegane’s Keep no matter the method or cost. 

\---

The following days are spent in tense contemplation, and Cersei is more wroth than usual with those who disturb her – particularly Margaery Tyrell. She keeps the news she has received to herself, much as she kept Ser Gregor’s original mission to herself, though several times Tommen hints at the letters she received. She tells him nothing.

Finally, one crisp autumn morning, a raven soars above King’s Landing, carrying a letter from one Ser Preytan Crakehall, reporting that Ser Gregor Clegane is indeed dead, and that the servants remain steadfast in their refusal to speak on the matter despite methods of torture being utilized. He makes no mention of a redheaded Stark girl, though Cersei supposes that the daft git might be just smart enough to consider hiding her identity. And so she writes back swiftly, urging him to press the servants harder, and inquiring after a nameless redheaded girl.

The next letter takes longer to arrive, but it comes one morning while Cersei is dining with Tommen and his irritating little wife. Without even bothering to excuse herself, she retires to her own chambers, unfolding the letter with trembling hands.

__

_Queen Mother Cersei Lannister,_

_At last, one of the servants has broken. A young lad, the son of one of the maids, apparently. He managed to stay well out of our notice for some time, with only his elder_ _brother being initially questioned. But we pulled him from the stables this morning, and though he made an admirable effort to resist our methods, he broke_ _eventually. The boy has informed me that Ser Gregor Clegane was slain by none other than The Hound himself, and that the man arrived with a queer collection of others –_ _Lady Brienne of Tarth, her squire whom reportedly arrived sometime later…and Ser Jaime Lannister. I pressed the boy to see if he dared deceive me, but I believe he_ _spoke truly, Your Grace. The boy also let slip that the group departed with Sansa Stark in tow. He swears that he does not know where they’d gone, and after questioning other_ _servants, I believe that as well. It is unlikely that the boy will survive his injuries, but I believe that we have extracted all of the valuable information that he knew._

_What shall be done with the other servants, Your Grace? Shall my regiment remain here at Clegane’s Keep to hold the manor in the meantime?_

_Regards,_  
_Ser Preytan Crakehall_

Cersei sees red.

Her skin seems to heat all at once, her dress becoming painfully hot as she reels, reaching for the nearest wall to stop herself from sinking to the stone floor. Her entire being is consumed with unleashed rage, and suddenly she is whirling, a primal scream sliding from between clenched teeth as she snatches her goblet from her desk and hurls it at the wall. It shatters just as the door flies open and the guards come rushing in, swords drawn.

She rounds on them like a true lioness, all bared teeth and wild eyes, her fingers curling like claws. _”Out. Fetch me Varys, and get out!”_ They scramble backwards, wide-eyed and startled as they shut the door behind them.

 _Ser Jaime Lannister. Jaime Lannister. Jaime._ The words from the parchment have seared themselves into her brain, her golden tresses whipping wildly behind her as she snatches her quill from the inkpot upon her desk. Ebony flecks of ink splatter the lace bodice of her emerald gown, but she does not care. Furiously she begins to write, the pounding in her head painful. 

Sansa Stark, gone again. The little _bitch_ has slipped right through her fingers once more, aided by the disgusting, shambling Maid of Tarth, the traitorous, flea-bitten Hound…and her own brother. Her twin. _Her Jaime._

Now she knows why he had gone to Lannisport. They’ve taken a ship, quite clearly, but to _where?_ Dorne? No, they would not dare. Farther. 

Essos. But the Free Cities are vast, a fact that makes her gnash her teeth painfully.

She has just finished her letter when Varys ducks into the room, bowing and clearing his throat delicately. If anyone can find treasonous, filthy traitors in the Free Cities, it is he. And she will send the man who somehow managed to escape the sacking of Clegane’s Keep to find them, under Varys’ command. Others, too. The finest, fiercest men that she can afford to send. The traitors will not escape her again.

She stands, the missive to House Crakehall clutched in her hands as her cutting emerald gaze meets the hooded eyes of Varys. 

“You will help me find traitors who have fled from the Crown’s justice for too long,” she seethes, her voice a deadly purr. And Varys smiles, bowing again.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he says, gliding closer to her. Brave, Cersei thinks, for daring to approach a starving lioness. “Tell me all that you know regarding these…traitors. And Gods help them when they are brought before you again.” 

“No,” Cersei says, feeling hatred rise in her; hatred for the craven Hound, the bumbling brutish Brienne of Tarth whom somehow managed to ensnare Jaime. Hatred for the Stark whore who robbed her of _everything_. And a jaded, painful pang of hatred for her heart, her twin, her Jaime. “Even the Gods will not be able to save them then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to clarify that I know Varys was supposed to have disappeared after helping Tyrion escape, buuuut I have use for our sneaky little eunuch in King's Landing still. So he remains there...for now. ;)


	23. Sandor VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was dying to write this chapter so badly that I couldn't sleep, so I got out of bed at about 2 AM and did just that! 
> 
> Our group hits land so soon!

  
_You remember when we were two beautiful birds_  
_we would light up the sky when we’d fly_  
_You were orange and red, like the sun when it sets_  
_I was green as an apple’s eye_  


_She’ll never trust you again, dog._

These words repeat over and over in his head, clanging like bells, beating like drums. Even as he works to help the sailors clear the deck of bodies and wash the blood from the wood, he silently berates himself. He kissed her. He _kissed Sansa_ , and he feels like a bloody fool for it.

His blood had been up from the battle, though it had been a pathetic excuse for a fight. And when Brienne had screamed to him from across the deck while fighting off three men that one of the pox-ridden pirates had slipped below decks, terror had surged through Sandor. Color him bleeding surprised when he’d burst into the room to find a corpse, a snarling hound, and Podrick Fucking Payne with blood on his sword. 

But Sandor had only considered these things for a moment, because it was Sansa who his eyes sought. Sansa, flushed and breathing hard with her hair wild and her eyes wide. Sansa, who felt so _right_ in his arms when he strode towards her. In the heat of the moment, relief and desire and bloodlust had all swirled together, and he’d claimed from her something that had not been his right. She had not resisted - _likely because she was fucking terrified_.

And so even when the deck is clean, even when the bodies have been offered to the sharks, Sandor makes himself scarce. While Brienne frets over Sansa and thanks Podrick endless times, while Jaime skulks around the deck with those damned sharp eyes of his, Sandor finds a quiet corner in the dingy kitchens below decks and settles with a skin of wine.

Though his body begs for the sweet release that wine has to offer, he does not allow himself to get piss drunk. He stays there, sprawled out of the way of the foreign-tongued cook, until his head begins to buzz with the faintest hint of inebriation. And then he abandons the skin in favor of filching a few hard rolls; the cook curses him soundly, but he can’t bloody understand the fat man anyways, so he stuffs bread into his mouth, ignoring the way his scars pull as he strolls from the kitchens.

When at last he emerges onto the decks, the moon is high and full in the sky, the inky darkness speckled with myriad stars. The breeze that slithers across the deck is cool, making him shiver and inwardly question how they will find the temperature to be in Lys. Certainly warmer than Westeros, and thank the fucking gods for that. He knows that the Little Bird is used to the icy grip of the North, but he was born in the Westerlands, and he favors fair temperatures. 

It’s near enough to dinner time, he knows after spending his time in the kitchens, so he slips far beneath the decks to the animal holdings, still not wishing to see Sansa. _Coward,_ his brain sneers, but Sandor cannot bear to see her look at him the way she did so many years ago, when she was but a frightened child and he no more than a bully. He knows that he was out of line, knows that he will have to apologize and swear to her that she does not have to worry over her dignity in his presence. But he’s never been good at apologizing, and the mere thought of it makes him growl.

The holdings stink of piss and shite, and Stranger is in a right foul mood. If Sandor had hoped that his stubborn beast would calm down after so many days spent upon the seas, he was wrong. He can barely approach the horse himself, and compared to the great black brute, the other horses seems like little blessings. His gaze is drawn to the silvery dappled palfrey belonging to Sansa - _Jonquil_ , she’d named her, Sandor remembers with a snort. She truly is a lovely mare, fitting for Sansa; he’s amazed that Gregor let something so striking live, animal or not. 

“Probably stole you right from the Vale, eh?” He murmurs, scratching behind Jonquil’s ears. Stranger gives an agitated snap of his teeth, which Sandor promptly ignores. “You escaped with her.”

Jonquil blinks at him limpidly, and he feels his lips twitch into a smile. It is easy to stand here with the familiar smell of horses in his nostrils; it is easy to ignore the way his heart cracks and twists. But he cannot hide forever, and so eventually he heaves a great sigh and ambles as slowly as he can manage to his shared chambers.

He enters to find a candle burning low, but blessedly his gaze finds Sansa curled beneath the blankets of her bunk, fast asleep. Likewise, Brienne and Podrick are slumbering as well. The Lion is the only one who twists to face him, and though his gaze holds a hundred questions, something about the look on Sandor’s face must convince him that it is better not to ask. 

Sandor is silent as he changes into a loose tunic and breeches, peeling the blood-splattered shirt from his form and tossing it in the corner to be discarded on the morrow. The bunk groans beneath him when he settles onto it, his feet hanging over the edge as he folds his arms beneath his head. There is a creaking from above him, suggesting that Jaime is shifting, and in the silence he hears the intake of a breath. But if Jaime is going to say something, he decides not to; the silence stretches on until the candle flickers out, and Sandor finds himself drifting into restless dreams, dreams that make him cringe and sweat and grit his teeth – 

He is jolted awake by the thin straw mattress of his bunk shifting. It feels as if he has only been asleep for moments, though judging by the tiniest hint of pale gray beginning to show through the porthole, it’s been hours. He nearly reaches for his sword where it rests by his bunk at he feels the mattress dip again, but then he sees a flash of red, smells the faintest whiff of brine and something sweet, and suddenly Sansa is there beside him, burrowing her way into his arms like a bloody mole. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, his whisper a strangled mix between angry and pathetic. She does not answer immediately, but curls against him instead, her head barely reaching mid-chest even when she is stretched out on the bunk with him. There is barely enough room for the both of them, with Sandor's shoulders pressed painfully against the cabin wall on one side, and Sansa practically dangling from the mattress. 

Before he can push her away, or demand an answer, she is reaching for him, cold little hands slipping beneath his tunic, her fingers curling against the flat expanse of his stomach.

“I just wanted to know,” she whispers back, “that it was real. Earlier.” 

The kiss. He freezes, all of the anger leeching out of his body. She does not sound angry, or disgusted…but rather like she is _glad_ it had been real. The smallest kernel of agonizing hope flickers in his chest, and though a part of him snarls and bucks and rebels at the idea of allowing himself to hope only to be crushed once more, the more desperate part of him wins out. His breathing is ragged as his head lolls down, and her own tips backwards, his lips seeking hers.

_Stupid, filthy dog. You were mistaken. She’ll push you away now, cry, scream. You’ll terrify her._

But she doesn’t.

Her lips are soft as silk when they meet his, none of the frenzied worry from their first kiss here. There is only a slow, gentle patience as the two of them explore each other so very carefully. Sandor hardly dares to move, to think, as if she will disappear in a cloud of smoke – as if he will wake up and this will all have been a dream. And when her fingers curl beneath his tunic, her nails gently scraping his skin, he shudders and barely suppresses a groan. He’s painfully hard in his breeches, a fact that he attempts to hide from her as he subtly tilts his hips away from hers. He can think of nothing but her, the feel of her skin beneath his, her lips moving with his, her round, perfect teats pressed against his chest…but he will leash his desire for her, for now. He will take only what she offers, for he knows that so few have ever given her that choice. If it is only little kisses that she wants, then it will damn sure be the death of him – but the sweetest way to die. And if she wishes for more…

His cock throbs at the thought and he has to force himself to pull away from her lips, though he is swift to lift his hand and wind it into the locks of her hair, not wishing to make her feel as if she has done something wrong. Though she has been married and stolen and hurt, she still kisses as if she has never truly done so before. It’s not as if _he_ has much experience with the matter, though; perhaps they can learn together.

“Dawn will come soon, Little Bird,” he murmurs softly. “And if the Lion finds you in my bunk, he’ll never shut his fucking mouth and I’ll have to kill him at last On second though, mayhaps you should stay.”

She giggles quietly but does not object to returning to her own bunk. Sandor partially hates himself for suggesting it despite the necessity, for when she sits up, the warmth of her body leeches out of him all at once. But then she leans down and her lips brush his again one last time, the movement searing him like a fire he never thought he’d welcome, before she slips off to bed. 

\---

If he is less gruff in the following days, the others carefully do not mention it.

Sansa is practically a ray of sunshine on her own, humming and smiling contentedly to herself when she sits aboard sewing, usually with Daiyu underfoot. Sandor thinks wryly one day that he has lost his hound, but if the bitch protects Sansa so fiercely, then he certainly cannot complain.

And Podrick…well, Sandor has perhaps softened a bit towards the boy, too. Though he is not easier on the boy when they spar on deck, he is a smidgen more patient now, instructing the squire on how to better his technique. And though Podrick ends each session bruised and flushed, it is clear from the grin on his face that the boy enjoys the thrashings he receives from Sandor and Brienne in turn.

The hulking warrior bitch finds him one day as he stands near the railing, a sense of easiness that she lacks on land seeming to have settled within her. At first she says nothing, simply standing there at his side and gawking at the waves until at last, exasperated, Sandor asks, “What?”

“Stassos says we’ll reach Braavos before the week’s end,” she tells him, and he nods. He’d thought as much when he’d reflected upon their time spent at sea the day before. “He thinks, if the weather is clear and the wind remains fair, that we’ll dock mid-morning.”

“Braavos isn’t safe,” Sandor grunts. “Not when so many bloody Westerosi frequent there – and Varys has a heavy hand in Braavosi business, as well. We’ll find the nearest inn upon docking and hope it’s not shite. Pay for a full day and check the ships, but if there’s none to Lys the next morning, we’ll slip off that night.”

“To Pentos.” He glances towards her, expecting to see confusion, but only sees careful contemplation instead. He's surprised that she guessed so swiftly, so accurately. Perhaps she's sharper than he gives her credit for. 

“Mm. Don’t know much about Essos, but from the maps Stassos’ showed me, it’ll take half a moon’s turn to reach Pentos. A pain in the ass journey, but we can’t wait in Braavos like bloody sitting ducks until a ship from Lys sails. I’d trust our odds on the roads better than in a city with endless eyes.”

And so it is decided. He tells the others later, and none of them disagree, though Podrick looks dejected at the idea of another journey spent riding. 

As if the seas are on their side, the water remains calm and the wind optimal in the days that follow. Boredom is replaced by restlessness, for they are all aware that they are approaching a vast, risky leg of their journey. Because of this, Sandor spends time teaching Sansa how to wield a little dagger that Podrick happily offers to her. 

Her movements are clumsy at first, uncertain, and she moves as if she intends to sew with it rather than stab. But as the days pass, Sandor exerts unfailing patience; he cannot help it when it comes to her. And slowly she improves; she is clearly no swordsman, but by the time Stassos informs them that they will reach Braavos the next day, Sandor is satisfied that she will at least stand a chance at escaping a startled assailant. 

He’s proud of his Little Bird.


	24. Sansa IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Land ho!
> 
> Not as much fluff this chapter, more plot stuff...but don't worry, it won't be gone for long ;D

  
_And my lungs hurt_  
_And my ears bled_  
_With the sound of the city life_  
_Echoed in my head_  


Sansa has never seen anything like Braavos before.

She is standing on the deck with Podrick as they approach, her eyes as wide as saucers as they pass beneath the legs of a sprawling warrior statue. Podrick looks nearly as enthralled as she does, she notes when she subtly turns to see if he’d caught her gaping like a fish. 

From a distance, she can make out only sprawling gray stone, massive, packed buildings, and what looks to be a swarm of ants but what she soon realizes with a gasp is a flurry of people. _So many!_ Even in King’s Landing, when the streets had been full of pressing bodies, there had not been such crowds. Something in her chest tightens at the sight, memories of the bread riot she narrowly lived through flooding her mind. But just as he was that dreadful day, Sandor is suddenly there, his large hand coming to rest gently upon her shoulder.

“Time to go below, Little Bird,” he says quietly, and the sound of his voice, the smell of him, it grounds her. She breathes in deeply, leaning back into his broad form for a moment as Podrick discreetly slips away. “You’ll see a bit of Braavos when we dock. Reckon it’s not as pretty at Lys will be, anyways.”

She smiles at him, reaching up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek despite the sailors that bustle around them. She cherishes the memory of the day before, when she at last learned the feel of his lips beneath her own. She’d thought about it often – especially when she was in the Vale, wrongfully believing for some time that he’d kissed her already, that night that the Blackwater burned. She’d been wrong, she’d realized so long ago, but now she must suppress a giggle as she realizes just _how_ wrong. The feel of his lips against hers for true had been unlike anything she ever could have imagined. 

Obediently she heads below deck, with Podrick and Daiyu as her escorts. Podrick is practically beaming over being offered the role of accompanying her so often after defending her from the sole pirate; it had been his first kill after so very long of training, he’d told her, and while he’d confessed that it hadn’t been the most valiant of efforts, he was still proud of himself. And rightfully so.

Her thoughts race as she sits on her bunk, hands clasped on her lap, listening to the sounds of the sailors scurrying above deck. It feels so strange to think that she is really _here_ , in Essos, so far away from everything she has ever known and loved. But then again, everything she loves that still lives is here on this ship with her. Things have changed so very much since she left Winterfell for King’s Landing so many moons ago, a foolish, hopeful child with songs in her head. And though she misses her family terribly, her mother and her brothers and even Arya, she has come to terms with the fact that while they will always reside firmly in her heart (and in her memories, though perhaps not as firmly as before due to Gregor), she has a new family now.

 _Sandor. Brienne, and Podrick, and Ser Jaime. Daiyu._ She smiles at the thought, tugging idly at a stray thread dangling from the waistband of her skirts. It feels strange to wear them again after the majority of her time upon _The Smuggler_ spent in trousers, but Sansa is uncertain of how the Braavosi dress, and the last thing she wishes is to draw attention to herself.

It seems to take ages for the ship to dock, but at last Brienne and Jaime come thundering down the stairs to retrieve the pile of bags beside the door. 

“Clegane is trying to get that bloody beast of his under control,” Jaime informs her with a wry twist of his lips. “Once he gets Stranger ashore, we’ll focus on the other horses. For now Brienne and I will move bags to the deck, so that we can easily strap them to saddles. Wait just a bit longer, my lady, and we’ll have you off this damned ship.”

“In the meantime, perhaps…your hair?” Brienne suggests, gesturing to Sansa’s fiery locks and then to the discarded scarf that lays upon the nearest bunk.

“Oh,” Sansa squeaks, nearly having forgotten in her excitement. While Brienne and Jaime begin to make multiple trips to the deck, with Podrick helping where he can, Sansa works at twisting her hair at the nape of her neck and wrapping the plain brown scarf securely around the locks, tucking every land strand of red snugly out of sight.

When at last it is time for her to travel above once more, it is Sandor who comes for her. The sight of his hulking frame in the doorway, head bowed to avoid colliding with the wood, makes some primal part of her stir, purring as it stretches languidly. Her eyes drink him in, so large and imposing in his newly donned armor, and yet so very comforting to her. Desire pools in her, though it is swiftly followed by confusion. Not because of him - _never_ because of him. But Sansa has only ever known demands and cruelty and fear when it comes to her body; she is not accustomed to these feelings, the ones that make her skin heat and wetness pool at the apex of her thighs. 

It is right. She _knows_ it’s right, because she loves him, and she wants him. But there is a part of her mind that is still jaded and fractured, a scab picked raw over and over again, oozing hurt and doubt into the rest of her. But Sandor…when he looks at her, there is something she has never seen before in his gaze. Understanding, disbelief, patience. He will not push her, she is certain, and for that she is heartbreakingly grateful.

He holds his hand out to her, and she rises with a smile, placing her palm in his. His fingers close over hers, rough skin meeting silken, dwarfing her fragile bones. He is nothing but gentle as he leads her above deck, into the sunlight, and over to where Captain Stassos is waiting.

“Rare for it to be so sunny in Braavos durin’ autumn,” Stassos is saying, peering suspiciously up at the clouds as if they will burst any moment. But then he glances away, spotting Sansa, and his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Perhaps it’s good luck, though. Just in time for your arrival, aye?”

“Aye,” Sandor rumbles in response as Sansa smiles. “Just wanted to thank you, before we go. For the safe passage.”

The words sound strange and foreign on his tongue, gruff but sincere. Sansa watches as Stassos sizes Sandor up for a moment, and then subtly nods.

“Should be me thankin’ you, truthfully. Saved us a lot of men when it came to those pirates. And suppose you all were good passengers, too. Stayed out from under foot.” He pauses, rubbing at his crimson beard. “If any of you ever need passage, and I’m in port…well, you know my name. And if you’re looking for a good, close inn, try the Outcast. Take the main road off the ports, straight down a bit on the left. Can’t miss it. Tell ol’ Dilila that Stassos sent ya’.”

And that was that. Sandor leads her from the ship to the docks with Stassos watching them from the deck the entire time. Brienne, Podrick, and Jaime have just finished saddling the horses when Sandor and Sansa arrive, with Podrick holding Jonquil’s reins.

“We’ll walk to the inn. Too crowded to ride,” Jaime says, after Sandor has briefly filled them in about the Outcast. And then they’re off, the lot of them with their hoods pulled snugly over their heads. Sansa worries that perhaps this might make them _more_ obvious, but as they press through the crowds with Sandor tugging her snugly against his side, she realizes that it is not exactly unusual. On their way to the inn, she spots all kinds of people; those with hoods pulled, as they are. Those scantily clad, some clearly prostitutes and others simply free with their forms. Those armed to the teeth with weapons, and those not. Old men, young men, children, women of all ages. Braavos has everything to offer, it seems, and her head swirls with the heady mixture of sights, smells, and sounds that assault her all at once.

Her head gives a throb of protest, her brain seeming to ache as she sucks in a breath. Sandor notices, tugging her along more quickly, Stranger clopping along in their wake. The vicious warhorse clears an easy path for the group, so with Stranger in tow, Sandor and Sansa take the lead. They are the first to reach the Outcast, which is wedged in-between two other buildings, but which looks to be nice enough. 

A boy lounging out front informs them that the stables are around back, and so they lead the horses there. It is nearly as cramped as the rest of the city, though the stable hand assures them that there is enough room for all four of the beasts. Jaime flicks the boy a generous coin, and then they are all crowding into the inn, which is moderately populated. Sansa worries that they will draw attention, but the gazes of the patrons flick to them for the briefest moment before darting away. _Perhaps there are stranger things in Braavos than us._

The innkeeper is a portly woman with a riot of chestnut curls, and she wipes her flour-coated hands on her apron as they approach. Sandor leans over the bar to murmur something to her, likely Stassos’ message, and her pinched face softens just a fraction as she takes them in. Her gaze lingers on Brienne first, and then Sandor’s scars, but there is no recognition there. Only semi-polite curiosity, perhaps wondering what type of people they were to earn Stassos’ favor.

“Got only a single room,” she says, somewhat apologetically. Sansa does not miss the glance that Jaime and Sandor share before the men agree to it, proclaiming that they will make it work for a night. _I suppose there’s no guarantee that we’ll be here come tonight, anyways,_ she thinks, remembering the agreed upon plan. _Best not to risk it._

Though there is only one room, the innkeeper – Dailila – assures them that there is plenty of warm food and hot baths to go around. “There’s a bathhouse only four doors down. Best to go just before sundown, when it’s not terribly busy. Dinner will be ready by the time you get back.”

A _bath_. Sansa cannot even bring herself to be deterred by the fact that it is a shared bathhouse – not when she has been at sea for weeks, with only a washcloth to clean herself. Before, she would have balked at the idea of strangers potentially seeing her naked, even if they were women. But now she can hardly reel in her excitement as they unsaddle the horses and move their bags to the room. At last Sandor turns to look at her, smirking.

“Oh, were you wanting a bath, Little Bird?” He asks as innocently as he can, and Jaime chortles. 

“Can you blame me?” Sansa asks, too excited to be cross. “I probably smell like the sea itself.”

“Aye,” Sandor says, wrinkling his nose, “you do.”

She swats at him, and then after the men and Brienne strip down from their armor, they’re off to the bathhouse – but only after Sansa fondly instructs Daiyu to stay and guard the room from the inside. 

It takes everything within Sansa for her to remind herself to walk slowly, calmly, and when they reach their destination, she practically drags Brienne to the woman’s side. The pools are steaming and so very inviting – and best of all empty, besides one elderly woman who seems to be dozing in a far pool. Brienne is more reluctant to strip down than Sansa, but it takes only a moment for the burly woman to give in, peeling off her salt-soaked clothes.

“Oh,” she murmurs as she eagerly sinks into the water, steam curling up to the stone ceiling. She’s _missed_ bathing so much, and even Brienne makes a delighted little noise as she swiftly slips below the surface of the water, clearly attempting to hide her body. Sansa does not comment on it. She thinks that Brienne has nothing to be ashamed of, but it is a battle that Brienne fights, and one that Sansa is not sure she is welcome to participate in. 

“We’ll send Pod to the docks after this, to check for a ship,” Brienne says after a long moment of lounging, gaze cutting towards the older woman who is snoring faintly. Still, she does not mention specific locations, or call Sansa by name; better safe than sorry, she supposes. “Otherwise, we’ll be off.”

 _Tomorrow,_ Sansa knows she means. It seems an awful pity to depart so swiftly after they’ve arrived, but Sansa is no stupid child anymore, and she realizes how necessary it is. 

“Look,” she says, as a means to change the topic. “They have _four_ different kinds of soaps. And look at all of the hair wash!”

The two spend the remainder of their bath in relative bliss. 

\--- 

Afterwards, Dailila sends a serving girl up to their rooms with steaming plates of smoked meat pastries, creamed cabbage, and honeyed tea buns, as well as a heaping side of fat trimmings and discarded bits of meat for Daiyu. The group is so happy to be served something besides fish that they ravenously descend upon their meals in silence.

Only once she has finished, with grease on her fingers and marks on her dress, does Sansa realize how unladylike she must have appeared. But it is clear that no one else cares, and she is clean and full when she at last sprawls onto one of the two beds in the room, Brienne collapsing onto the mattress beside her in an unusual show of comfort.

After he has finished eating, Podrick slips away to inquire after ships. He is gone for some time, and Sansa has nearly dozed off when he at last returns, grimly reporting that the next ship for Lys will leave in a sennight.

And so it is decided that they will leave that night – only four hours’ time from the current hour. Sansa’s eyes are heavy when Sandor slips onto the bed on her other side, unbeknownst to Brienne, who has already fallen sound asleep.

He leans in to plant a soft kiss upon her lips, and though Sansa wonders if Jaime and Podrick watch, she cannot resist humming and curling into him.

“Sleep, Sansa,” he tells her, raising a hand to brush her hair from her face. She means to tell him that he should sleep, too, but only a quiet murmur slips from her lips before she is fading, the exhaustion from the trip, the pounding of her head, and the feel of Sandor beside her lulling her to sleep.


	25. Jaime V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man, it's been a busy time for me. I know I haven't updated in around 10 days now, and believe me, I feel terrible for it! I've thought about this fic every single day, mapped out this chapter in my mind, stole little moments to write when I could. If you are in the US, and even some of you that aren't, you've probably heard of hurricane Matthew. I live in Florida - northwest Florida, to be exact. While my area was not impacted by the hurricane, we had a LOT of people from the surrounding areas that were evacuated. Literally all of our hotels on the beach and in town were full. This, along with Columbus day weekend in a very popular tourist town, meant that things were CRAZY. I've had one day off as opposed to my usual four, which means not only have I been terribly exhausted from work, but I also had very little time to do anything other than homework when I WASN'T working. Finally, after getting today off and finishing up a paper due last minute, I've had time to sit down and finish this.
> 
> Please forgive me for being away for a bit, and for any mistakes. It's 3 AM here, but I really really reallllly want this posted before I sleep. I can't wait another day! 
> 
> It's good to be back. ;)

  
_I've been a thousand places_  
_And shook a million hands_  
_I don't know where I'm going_  
_But I know just where I've been_  
_I've flown a million miles_  
_and I've rode so many more_  
_Every day, a castaway_  
_A vagabond battleborn_  


They leave Braavos under the cover of night.

After the hardships that the group has encountered over the past few moons, it is remarkably easy. A city with no walls is a blessing, Jaime thinks as he steers Honor through the shadows. He is tired, his back protesting soundly after his restless slumber upon the cheap mattress of the inn, but he does not complain. Ahead of him rides Sandor, with Sansa seated in the saddle before him, and Podrick riding Jonquil alongside Brienne at the front of the party. They’ve been riding for hours now, never stopping, alternating between galloping and trotting to allow the horses to rest. 

The animals seem glad to be free of the ships confines despite the pressing journey ahead. Daiyu trots happily alongside Stranger, the great black destrier having lost some of his restlessness over the last few hours. 

The weather in Essos is notably warmer than in Westeros; not quite hot, not quite cool, somewhere firmly in-between. As the sky slowly turns from inky black to pale gray, Sandor at last turns and calls, “We’ll bed down soon. Somewhere in the woods.”

They’ve been crossing a wide expanse of plains for what feels like ages, with Sandor constantly glancing over his shoulder, searching for tails. Though the plains obviously make him nervous, Jaime is thankful for them. It means that there is nowhere for potential enemies to hide, and since they have spotted nothing over the last few hours, it also means that they have _not_ been followed after all. 

At last, just as the sun is beginning to rise, painting the sky vivid shades of pink and orange, a forest springs up on the horizon. They are tired, all of them, with Sansa slumped in her saddle, her head lolling against Clegane’s massive frame. Podrick looks as if he might tumble from his saddle at any moment, and each step that the horses take towards the cover of the trees makes Jaime clench his fist around the reins with tired anticipation.

There is a notable path through the forest, which they avoid, for now. They tramp through the trees for a while until they find a decent clearing, each of them practically falling from the saddle. Jaime immediately begins to unburden Honor, removing packs of provisions purchased from the Braavosi inn, his bedroll, and at last the saddle. He feels only the smallest pang of regret when he sloppily brushes down his mount before retreating; he is too tired to feel much else.

None of them seem particularly interested in eating. Sansa is heavy-lidded and sluggish as she begins to lay out her bedroll while Sandor finishes brushing Stranger. Her hair is mused and her riding gown wrinkled, and she seems to not mind kneeling in the dirt to smooth her bedroll down. Jaime watches her as she sits back on her haunches, chewing at her lip for a moment before suddenly seeming to come to a decision. Reaching behind her, she grabs Sandor’s bedroll, dragging it over and placing it directly beside hers, no space separating the two. Satisfied, she glances up to meet Jaime’s eyes and pauses, her cheeks coloring just faintly. Jaime cannot resist smirking at her, though the movement is not unkind, and she quickly looks away.

It's clear that she and Sandor share feelings far beyond that of a man and his charge; one would have to be daft not to see it. _Or,_ he amends, _naïve like Brienne._ But when his gaze seeks out the woman in question, she too is looking at Sansa, a knowing gleam in her gaze that surprises Jaime. Then again, the two _are_ friends. Still, it’s difficult to imagine proper little Sansa Stark and noble Brienne of Tarth gossiping over men, and the thought it so amusing that he chuckles aloud.

Brienne’s gaze snaps up to meet his as she lifts her bedroll, and he grins at her, patting the space beside his own. She scowls heavily, but his grin widens when she does not protest, ambling over to lay her roll beside his. Much further away than he’d indicated, of course, but he is too tired to bicker over it. 

Podrick is already fast asleep where his roll lies on the other side of Brienne’s, something that Sandor notes with a snort as he turns towards the company. Jaime watches how his eyes move to settle on his roll, how they widen as he notes how close it is to Sansa’s, who is snuggling down beneath her blankets with a look of calculated innocence as Daiyu curls at her feet. But Sandor does not protest, grunting as he lowers himself heavily upon his own bedroll.

There is not much else that Jaime remembers about that morning, for sleep claims him the moment that he curls beneath his blanket. But when he awakes late in the afternoon, with the sunlight filtering lazily through the canopy of trees above, he rolls onto his side to find two curious things. 

The first is that Sansa and Sandor are entwined in each other’s arms, both their expressions of innocent contentment as they slumber, fiery red strands of hair tangled with lank black. 

And the second is that somehow, during the night, Brienne had scooted closer to him as well. Their hands lie close together on the ground, their fingers only inches apart. She is asleep still, her chest rising and falling slowly beneath her blankets as Jaime observes her, his gaze sliding across her face. And then he reaches those last few inches, their fingertips grazing and curling together. 

\--- 

They continue their routine of sleeping by day and traveling by night, covering significant ground. Podrick directs them with a map purchased from the inn, leading them along roads when they can be found, and across rough terrain when they cannot.

A week into their journey, they are all weary, and Jaime is in a particularly foul mood as he rides alongside Sandor and Sansa. But despite this, he still cannot help attempting to alleviate some of Sansa’s boredom. She is clearly saddle-sore, wincing when Stranger jostles her too roughly, and with little to be done about it. For the majority of the night she spends her time idly braiding the strands of her hair, and then Stranger’s mane, until Sandor so very politely informs her that Stranger is a warhorse, not _a bloody pony_. She is sullen and silent after that, all of their tempers seemingly stirred, until at last Jaime takes pity on her.

“I heard a rumor about Lys, you know. Years and years ago, before Robert’s reign.” 

She swivels to look at him, blue eyes sparkling with interest, so he continues.

“It’s said that the blood of Old Valyria still runs strong in the Lyseni. They’re rumored to greatly resemble Targaryens as we know them; silver of hair, pale of skin. Some of them supposedly even have those blasted lilac eyes.” Deep purple, too, it had been said. “Even Targaryen kings and princes were known to have taken Lyseni women as wives and paramours. Everything about Lys is beautiful, apparently. The women, the men, the land.” 

“It sounds like a marvelous place,” she says, her voice wistful. “I cannot wait to see it.”

And Jaime agrees. Sansa has known nothing of the finery and luxury she was once accustomed to during their journey, and has not uttered a complaint once. He’d once thought her spoiled and daft, like many of the court ladies, caring only for material things. But how very wrong he had been. It was precisely because of this that he feels the poor girl deserves a comfortable, safe life in Lys for as long as they can provide it to her. As a Lannister, a man of the very House that had slaughtered her family and ruined life as she knew it, it is the least that Jaime could do.

“Sounds like a fucking fairytale,” Sandor grumbles, breaking the silence. 

“Come now, Clegane,” replies Jaime. “Where is your sense of romance?”

“I’ll show you my buggering sense of romance when I shove it up your –“

“I think it sounds quite nice, as well,” Podrick offers helpfully as Brienne snorts. “What? It does.”

“Yes, Podrick, clearly,” replies Brienne. “But when has Clegane ever admitted that _anything_ was nice?”

“Mind your own bloody business,” snaps Sandor. 

Amidst the bickering, Jaime only smiles. Even as Sandor and Brienne continue to argue amongst themselves, even as Podrick regularly intervenes with comments that only serve to irritate Brienne more, he can find only amusement in the situation at hand. 

And when Daiyu suddenly darts off with a baying howl into the woods, alarming them, only to return shortly later with a hare dangling from her jaws, the mood of the group visibly brightens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a Sansa POV, so fluff :D I'll likely not spend tooo long on them traveling to Pentos. I don't want to rush it, but I also don't want to drag it out terribly.


	26. Sansa X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you all for your well-wishes! I haven't had time to reply to comments lately, as all of the time I do get on the computer is spent writing. But I appreciate all of you so much, and I cannot express to you how much it means to read your reviews!

  
_Because all I ever wanted was a place to call my home_   
_To shelter me when I am there and to miss me when I'm gone_   
_All I ever wanted was a place to call my own_   
_Where stars will dance and sun still shines and the storms feel free to roam_   


In the grand scheme of things, a fortnight is not a long time. Especially when compared to their sea voyage, where they spent months upon the rocking ship. But still, Sansa is so tired of running. More than anything, she longs for somewhere that they can settle down and rest for a while; somewhere that they can be as close to safe as they have ever been.

Despite the fact that she has seen little of Essos besides fields, trees, and paths, Sansa finds the place beautiful and alluring. She has never been outside of Westeros, after all, with her knowledge of the places even there being shallow. Aside from the Vale, Winterfell, and King’s Landing, Sansa has known nothing else. _Clegane’s Keep, too,_ she reminds herself. _Even if it was not for as long as I would have liked._

Her ribs only bother her now when she twists too suddenly, though she still carefully binds them in wrapping to be safe. The last thing she wishes is to jostle herself during the long rides that she spends seated before Sandor upon Stranger. 

Though the road has made them all cross, Sansa cannot deny enjoying her time spent nestled against the firm body of Sandor. They have grown closer despite their journey, each night now spent curled in each other’s arms, dozing off to the sound of the horses gentle stamping and the rustling of the wind in the leaves. No longer do the others even bat an eye at this, though after the first night Sansa was subjected to Brienne's curious, if not somewhat shy, whispered demands for information. 

The days in Essos are mild and comfortable, the nights cool and breezy, giving the Sandor and Sansa plenty of opportunity to press themselves together for warmth. And it is precisely this that leads to an interesting discovery on Sansa’s part one morning.

She is not accustomed to waking first. Normally it is Sandor who gently shakes her awake each morning, and so when her eyes open to find that he is still snoring softly beside her, she is momentarily surprised. More surprising, however, is the hardness that she finds pressed firmly against her backside. For a moment she freezes, the realization of exactly what she is feeling making her cheeks heat. There is a dark, jaded part of her that wants to shy away, memories of Gregor making her heart race in a wild panic. But stubbornly Sansa refuses to give into her fright. 

_Sandor. It is Sandor. He won’t hurt you._ Over and over she tells herself this, breathing deeply until her heartbeat slows…and then she allows herself to analyze the complicated feelings that churn within her. With her fright having subsided, there is now only a sense of curiosity, and…and something else, something that she has never felt before despite Gregor’s deeds, and Petyr’s cajoling. It is a strange tightness in her tummy, a warmth between her legs, and a _yearning_ somewhere deep within her that makes her shift. Unintentionally she grinds her hips back against his and he wakes suddenly with a grunt. Sansa’s eyes snap closed, for something tells her that he would not be pleased to know that she’d felt… _that_. And it seems that she’s right, for almost immediately his hips shift away from hers. She hears him release a shaky breath, and then he is moving out from beneath their shared blankets, leaving Sansa confused and somehow terribly frustrated. She wishes that she'd pressed Randa for more information, or listened more intently, during her time in the Vale. _How I wish she was here now!_

In the days that follow, she cautiously explores the strange feeling that she experienced that morning. It is all too easy to wriggle her hips against his in the saddle, and though he tries to hide his arousal, it is impossible for him to move his hips too far back, lest he fall off the back of Stranger. A part of Sansa is mortified that she is behaving in such an wanton manner…but that part of her is small and daft, she thinks petulantly. _I am not proper little Sansa of House Stark anymore. I am no Princess of Winterfell; not here, in Essos, with no family and no responsibilities._ Technically she is Sansa Lannister, anyways, though she does not like to remind herself of that fact. It is a problem that she still struggles to find a solution for.

More than anything, Sansa is done living the way that others wish her to. She is done stamping down her desires, done apologizing for her beliefs. No longer is she the quivering mouse that crept quietly through King’s Landing; she is a wolf now, unapologetically fierce and strong. And so she does not allow herself to feel guilty for exploring these newfound feelings that Sandor has caused. She knows that she loves him, after all, and so when she realizes that what she is feeling is _desire_ , it only seems right.

Sandor, however, seems to have suddenly morphed into a saint. Though he cannot escape her teasing on horseback, he still never pushes boundaries with her when they lay together at night, long after the others have slept. She knows that he is only thinking of her, but she still longs to feel the brush of his fingers against her skin, in places besides her lips. Though she is grateful for every stolen kiss that they share, she wants _more_.

But she knows that the wild, surrounded by their companions, is not the place to ask for this. So she waits as patiently as she can manage, all the while turning over her feelings in her head. 

\---

For two weeks they ride, stopping where they can to bathe, though it is not as frequently as Sansa would like. They eat portions from their satchels of food each day, along with fresh game whenever Sandor and Podrick manage to trap it, always accompanied by Daiyu, who they say makes hunting a breeze. 

At last, however, Pentos appears on the horizon.

They smell it before they see it, and sense the change in the air. The wind carries the scent of brine from the bay, and slowly the road begins to fill with more travelers and merchants. Sansa ties her hair up at Sandor’s insistence as he grunts that they are not as far away from Braavos as he would like; she misses the feel of the wind upon her scalp, but she does not complain. 

They fall into the crowd of travelers as they approach, each of them silent. Though she does not say so aloud, Sansa finds Pentos breathtaking from the moment she is close enough to study it. It is all white-washed stone, sprawling and somehow elegant, with the sunlight sparkling off of the bay behind it. Gulls circle overhead, their cries echoing before getting lost far below in the growing hum of the city. 

Unlike Braavos, Pentos is guarded by a wall, though the soldiers at the gate do not so much as bat an eye at them as they pass. And then they are through, and the sheer amount of people is overwhelming. The smell of dough and bodies mingle together in a strange mixture, making Sansa wrinkle her nose as Sandor steers Stranger through the crowd, Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick following close behind. 

Everywhere Sansa looks, there is something interesting to see. Men with oiled and forked beards, bards singing foreign songs joyously, merchants selling wares, and a woman with a strange, striped beast following behind on a chain. Her head swivels every which way, until Sandor’s deep, rumbling laugh makes her tilt her head back to look at him, asking, “What?”

“You look like a bloody owl,” he remarks with a smirk, making her laugh.

“It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like the Free Cities before. They’re…”

“Outlandish?” He offers, making her swat at him.

“No! Wonderful.”

“So you don’t regret coming to Essos with me?” He is smirking still, but there is a change in his tone, one that suggests that the mood has shifted. 

“Of course not,” she replies, laying her hand gently upon his forearm, and he winds an arm around her belly in turn, pulling her closer against him in relief. Now it is her turn to smile, her lips curling as she leans into him. _Safe._

They find a tavern that Podrick informs them is called the Whispering Dragon, which Sandor snorts at. Though the boy milling outside does not speak Westerosi, Jaime steps in to converse in High Valyrian, which Sansa understands most of. She assumes that Brienne and Podrick do, as well; Maester Luwin had taught she and each of her siblings High Valyrian, as was common in most noble households, though she has not practiced in many years and does not remember all of it. And though she’s been told that most of the Free Cities speak Low Valyrian, the two are apparently similar enough, for the boy understands their desire to stable their horses – though as usual they must wait as Sandor settles Stranger himself. 

With her bags in her arms, Sansa trails after Sandor and Jaime as they duck into the inn, Brienne and Podrick on her heels. It is a cozy place, with mismatched tables full of clientele, including two hooded men in a corner and a red-robed priest speaking softly with a weeping woman. The innkeeper is a portly man with a beard dyed a fading shade of blue, and he wipes his greasy hands on his apron as they approach. 

“Two rooms, if you have them,” Jaime tells the man, who nods in acceptance. “And a meal for each of us.”

“Two rooms – one with two beds. One with one,” the man says, to Sansa’s understanding. Jaime flicks a glance in Sandor’s direction, and then in hers, but before she can think on what this means, he nods. 

“Good,” the innkeeper says. “Lunch is leg of mutton, soft cheese, yams and cooked apple. Yes?”

“Yes,” Jaime agrees, and the man waves over a young girl, who blessedly is fluent in Westerosi. She leads them up the stairs, her arms full of linens, and down a long, brightly lit hall.

“Bathhouse is a bit of a walk, but not terribly far. There are some nice shops between here and there, anyways, if you’ll be needing more supplies.” She stops before two rooms side-by-side, raising her brow at both Sansa and Brienne. “And which’ve you will be sharing the one bed?”

“One bed?” Sandor repeats, glaring at Jaime with a venom that makes the golden-haired man grin and shrug. But before anyone can say anything, Sandor offers, “Me and my wife will.”

The maid’s eyes flit to Brienne, before widening as Sandor rests his hand upon Sansa’s shoulder. She is sure in that moment that her own eyes are just as huge; it is a smart rouse, she knows, but still…hearing Sandor refer to her as his wife...

The maid shrugs, seeming to accept this easily enough as her eyes rake down Sandor’s frame, lingering on the noticeable bulge of his forearms, his narrow waist, and lower. Then she glances towards Sansa, winking suggestively before gesturing to the door on the right. “That one, then. The other has two beds. I’ll be up with your plates shortly – and something for the dog, too, aye?”

Without waiting for a response she bustles off, seeming to not notice Sandor glaring daggers into her spine. 

“Well,” Podrick says cheerily. “That was sufficiently awkward." 

He receives an elbow to the side from Brienne in response.

Sansa shuffles into the room the maid instructed, her bags clutched to her chest. She does not know what she is expecting; a straw mattress and a dingy, windowless room, perhaps. But as she steps inside she stops, gasping. 

It is nothing extravagant compared to what she has lived in before…but Sansa is pleasantly surprised. Sunlight filters in through sheer emerald curtains from the tall, open windows, reflecting upon the polished wooden floors. The bed, though surely not large enough to sleep a man like Sandor Clegane completely comfortably, is large and piled with furs, the four-poster frame sporting draping’s that match the curtains, shifting in the breeze from the windows. There is even a vanity with a polished mirror, a cozy fireplace tucked into one corner, and a colorful changing screen depicting a scene of a woman seated beside a brook.

But most stunning is what Sansa finds when she perches on the edge of the mattress, her eyes fluttering closed. “A feather bed.” 

From the doorway, Sandor chuckles, and her eyes fly open. The small doorframe makes him look all the more massive, his broad shoulders brushing against the wood as he ducks inside. “I told the Lion that he was paying for the inn this time. Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he picked somewhere like this.”

She grins with delight as she spreads her arms like wings and collapses back onto the bed, sinking into the furs. It is so nice, and she cannot wait to settle into the warmth of it later, with Sandor’s arms wrapped around her…

 _My wife._ Her eyes creep open again, watching as Sandor bustles around the room, settling their things. In a few short hours, they will sleep in a proper bed together, and the thought makes Sansa’s skin flush, her heart beginning to race. At that moment he glances up, and whatever he sees in her eyes makes him frown. He must guess what she is thinking, for he sighs, gesturing to the floor.

“I’ll sleep down there, Sansa. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Worry…?” She trails off as she sits up, her frown now matching his. “But I’m not worried.”

He barks a laugh, harsher than she’s heard in some time. “You should be. Sharing a bed with a vile old dog like me wouldn’t be wise, girl.”

“Stop it.” Her voice is firm enough to surprise her – and him, too, it seems. His good brow shoots skyward, slate eyes glistening as he stares at her. But bravely she continues. “Stop talking about yourself like that. You and I both know that I have nothing to worry about with you. You will sleep here in the bed with me, because I _want_ you to.”

“That so, Little Bird?”

“Yes.” She folds her arms stubbornly across her chest and he laughs, the low sound sending a delicious shiver up her spine. _Perhaps he’s the one who will have to worry about me tonight._

“Alright then. I know better than to argue when you have that damned look on your face,” he says, holding out his hand to her. “Should we eat with the others, then?”

As much as she wants to bar the door and spend the entirety of the day in this room with Sandor, pretending as if tomorrow they will not immediately begin searching for ships to Lys, she nods, placing her hand in his own. His skin is rough and calloused, his fingers covering her entire hand completely as he helps her to her feet. And she beams at him, the brightness of her smile shining from her heart. “Let’s.”


	27. Sandor VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things! 
> 
> As many of you know, my mom had breast surgery a few weeks ago. She was doing well...but now she has developed a staph infection in both, and is in the hospital. She's doing well; they're giving her antibiotics through an IV, hoping to get rid of it before it spreads. I've been with her for a while, and so this chapter was written entirely from my phone at the hospital while she's been sleeping. There may be typos because of that. Buuuut finally you guys get what you've been waiting for! :P

  
_You've got a way to keep me on your side_   
_You give me cause for love that I can't hide_   
_For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide_   
_Because you're mine, I walk the line_   


After the group eats, they travel to the bathhouse, which is a decent walk – just as the innkeeper informed them – though Sandor is glad to stretch his legs. Afterwards, when they are all clean and as content as they can be, they return to their rooms, though Sandor lingers in the hall while Sansa changes.

To think that in a few moments, he’ll be sprawled out on a feather mattress beside Sansa, with the smell of her so near, her soft skin just inches away…

He scowls and shifts to hide the evidence of his arousal, trying desperately to think of something, _anything_ , else. This is all Jaime bloody Lannister’s fault, he thinks with a snort, his thick arms folding sullenly over his chest. Of course the Lion would be the one to get Sandor into this position, where he’ll be so very near to the loveliest creature he’s ever laid eyes on…but entirely unable to do anything about it. 

_You could, though. This might be your only chance,_ some part of him that sounds uncomfortably like the Hound he used to be growls, and Sandor’s breath hitches. _No._ He will not touch her. For some unknown reason, she’s allowed him to kiss her these last few days, but that will be the extent of his experience when it comes to Sansa Stark. He will not sully her more than he already has. 

The door creaks open behind him and he turns, barely managing to stifle a groan at the sight of her. She’s lovely, even in a plain ivory nightgown, with her auburn hair flowing down to her waist, brushed and gleaming. She smiles at him as he steps past her, though he only grunts as he turns away to bar the door behind him.

For a long moment he stands there, back to the room, teeth gritted. He has never felt more like a filthy dog than he does in this moment; Sansa trusts him, and all he can think of is running his hands down her belly, curling his fingers around her thighs. 

"Sandor?" Sansa's voice is quiet, unsure. Taking a deep breath, he turns at last to face her, seeing that she has seated herself on the mattress, blankets pulled up around her waist. The flickering candlelight from the bedside table illuminates her, flashing across her hair, making the front of her gown practically see-through. At the sight of her breasts, the delicate pink nipples that the fabric clings to, he growls and looks away. 

"I'm going to sleep on the floor, Little Bird." 

She huffs, audible and frustrated. "We've already discussed this. You're not." 

"Going to stop me?" 

"I'll crawl down there and sleep beside you, if I must." 

He snorts. "And forsake your precious feather bed?" 

He glances up in time to see her chin tilt upwards, the movement regal, revealing her slender white throat. "If I must." 

There is no bloody use arguing with her; he doesn't know why he tried. Slowly, he kneels to remove his boots, feeling the weight of her gaze on him the entire time. When he's finished he straightens, gray eyes boring into blue as he unbuckles his sword belt, tossing it near the foot of the bed with a thump. And then there is nothing left to do. 

His thoughts are a whirlwind of desire and self-doubt as he creeps towards the mattress. Never once doesSansa look away from him, even as he lowers himself onto the mattress so carefully, as if he thinks it will burn him. And still he feels her gaze on him, even when he turns away to blow out the candle, leaving them in darkness. 

For a moment, he can hear nothing but the sound of her breathing, mingling with his own. And then the bed shifts as she lays down, her arm brushing his. Sandor recoils as if burned, gritting his teeth. She is so near to him, clad in nothing but a nightgown. He can smell her, the scent of jasmine soap clinging to her skin, can hear her soft breathing, can _sense_ her there beside him. Resolving himself to behave, he shifts and makes as if to turn onto his side, back to her - but then quick as an adder she reaches out, tiny fingers wrapping partially around his wrist, stilling him. 

"Sandor." His name is like a whispered song on her tongue, scorching him, making his body freeze even as his heart begins to beat as heavily as a pounding drum. "You don't have to be afraid."

"You haven't the slightest clue what you're saying," he snarls, feeling helpless rage rise within him - not at her, but at himself. He is ashamed to speak the next words, but he has to warn her. "Of course I have to be afraid. You should be too, girl. Do you know how difficult it is for me to lay here and know that I cannot have you? Do you know how many different ways I've imagined taking you? I could claim that song I promised you I would, all those months ago. I could bury myself between those long legs of yours and take what I wanted. And you think that you shouldn't be afraid?" 

For a moment she is silent, but when she speaks again, her voice is strong. "You won't take what I do not give," she says, and he laughs cruelly, opening his mouth to interrupt her - but she does not give him the chance. "No. _Listen_. All of my life, I have been told that what I want does not matter. My Septa told me many things; that when the time comes, I will submit myself to my husband fully. That until then, I will be chaste and proper. That it was not ladylike to think of improper things until I was married, and perhaps not even then. When I realized what a monster Joffrey was, that I would be forced to submit to his cruelty all for the sake of his pleasure, it terrified me. When I was spirited away by Petyr and eventually submitted to his kisses and touches, it revulsed me. When...when Gregor stripped me naked and knelt over me to take me, it broke me." 

Sandor's breath hitches at this, shame and anger warring, but still she goes on. 

"Imagine my confusion when the thought of...of being with you evoked none of these things. Imagine my wonder when it _excited_ me." She shifts beside him, sitting up and taking one of his hands in her own. "If that makes me improper, or wanton, or unladylike, then so be. I would rather experience desire and happiness with you and be considered a whore for it, than face pain and humiliation from another man and be considered proper." 

Her fingers wrap around his wrist again, pulling his hand towards her. When she brings his hand to one of her breasts he flinches as if to pull back, but she will not allow it. 

"I want you, Sandor. I want you because I love you. And even if we cannot be together properly yet, I long for it. When there is no danger of our coupling inevitably making me another mans wife, when my marriage is dissolved, I will give myself to _you_. But until then..."

She falters now, and he feels her skin heat beneath his palm as she murmurs, "until then, I have been told that there are other things we can do." 

Sandor feels as if he has been struck over the head with a mace. Her words ring in his head over and over, echoing noisily. _I want you. I will give myself to you. I love you._ The pathetic, neglected part of him that is so very used to cruelty hesitates. Surely this is a joke. At any moment she will laugh at him, tell him how disgusting he is, send him away. But the part of him that is desperate to believe her, to love her, crumbles first. 

He releases a ragged breath as his resolve breaks, rolling towards her and pulling her into his arms. She is so soft, so delicate, her tiny form folding into his so easily. The hand on her breast squeezes gently as his lips crash down onto her, frenzied at first but quickly slowing. He wants to savor her, to remember ever blessed moment of this as he coaxes her lips open, his tongue meeting hers. His hand slips beneath the front of her gown, his finger tracing the fragile lines of her collar bone before dipping lower, gently pinching her nipple between his fingers. 

She mewls so sweetly that he breaks away from her lips and groans, burying his face in the soft crook of her neck. He's painfully hard, his cock twitching madly in his breeches, and he knows she must feel it against her belly as she arches against him. And then slowly, tentatively, her hand slides down his chest, lingering on the hard plane of his stomach before slipping lower, her palm stroking his length. It's nearly enough to undo him as his eyes flutter closed, unable to even make a noise, because _Sansa Stark is willingly touching him_. 

"Oh," she breathes, the sound barely a whisper. "It's so...well, _big_. I didn't know that it would be like..." she trails off, and her index finger traces the shape of his tip through his pants. His hips jerk hard as he reaches down to still her hand, pulling it away. 

"Did I do something wrong?" She asks, the worry clear in her tone. 

" _No._ Fuck, no. But if you don't stop, this is going to go very quickly." He should be ashamed to admit it, but how could he be, when a goddess such as herself is stroking him? Breathing in a ragged breath he shifts suddenly, lowering his weight on top of her as she lets out a squeak of surprise. He is careful not to flatten her as he begins to leave a trail of kisses across her skin, down along her neck and across her collar bone, making her gasp when his lips reach her breasts. But the noise is nothing compared to the startled moan of pleasure that slips from her mouth as he yanks her gown down wraps his lips around one of her nipples, his hand lifting to caress the other. 

Even the taste of her skin is maddening, the feel of her breasts unlike anything he could have imagined. They've inevitably grown in the time the two spent apart, the swell of them fitting perfectly into his palms, as if she'd been made for him. The thought makes him growl possessively as he nips harder at her, and her hips buck reflexively, making her gasp. 

Abruptly he pulls away and sits up, his hands going to the hem of her gown. He feels her freeze and pauses, his fingers brushing her legs reassuringly. 

"I won't do anything you don't want me to," he says. "I just wish to try something. Do you trust me?" 

Her answer is immediate. "Yes." 

He hitches up her gown to her stomach, folding it over her waist. Inwardly he curses at himself for blowing out the candle, though perhaps it was better that he did. If she is more comfortable in the dark, then he is satisfied, as much as he wishes to look upon her gloriously naked form. 

His hands caress her shins, ghosting across her knees to rest on her thighs as he settles himself between her legs. His fingers making lazy circles on her skin, her breathing swift and ragged in the silence as his fingers flick teasingly upwards. He's enjoying himself despite the way he throbs and aches for her, because he knows that no one has ever touched her so reverently, so _lovingly_ before. He will worship her until the end of his miserable life, if she allows it. 

When at last his fingers settle at the apex of her thighs, he pauses, muttering a quiet "fuck, Sansa." She's wet enough to soak his fingers already, and something within him surges at the realization. He's been with countless whores before, but despite the fineness of his body, they were always too horrified by the memory of his face to become wet for him. He'd always had to use a slick oil, and he'd been so ashamed the first time that he'd been unable to even finish. But Sansa - lovely, perfect Sansa - is wet and willing for him, nearly making him come in his breeches like a green boy then and there. 

But not yet. He has plans for her, and when he dips his head, his tongue darting out to taste her, she arches off of the bed with a soft keen that makes him chuckle, the sound deep and muffled. 

He takes his time with her. Each slow, languid swipe of his tongue makes her pant and moan, the noises she makes so delicious that Sandor thinks he could gladly spent the rest of his life making her gasp for him. His hands are so large that they nearly cover her hips entirely where he holds her trembling thighs to the bed. 

He drags it out, not wanting to part from her yet; if licking her like this brings him such pleasure, he cannot even begin to imagine what it would be like to fuck her. And already she's shaking, her body taut and ready to unravel, if only he'd let her. Each time he brings her close he stops, until she's begging him breathlessly. 

"Sandor, _please_ , I need..." 

She trails off and he pauses, making her hum with frustration. "You need what, Little Bird?" 

Another noise of frustration as she tries to figure it out. Surely she knows what it means to come...doesn't she? 

Startled, he realizes that it's a very real possibility that Sansa might not. He knows that she's never been with a man quite like this, but he'd assumed she'd brought herself to completion, at least. His cock gives another painful throb at the realization, and he bends his head to make tight circles around her nub with his tongue, suddenly determined. One of his hands breaks away from her hip, and as gently as he can manage, he slips the first joint of his index finger into her. 

The noise she makes is the sweetest sound he's ever heard as she arches off the bed abruptly, her entire body tensing as her hand flies down to tangle in his hair. He continues to pleasure her gently until her shaking has subsided, and then he rolls over onto his back, unlacing his breeches to take himself in hand. It only takes three strokes for him to spend himself on his belly with a grunt, stars exploding behind his fluttering eyelids. 

For a long moment neither of them speak, both of them struggling to catch their breath. He is the first to move, wiping his mess away with his tunic, which he discards. The moment his head hits the pillow again, Sansa rolls over to rest her head against his chest, her little heartbeat fluttering rapidly against his side. 

"You alright, Little Bird?" 

" _Yes,_ " she says, swatting him when he laughs. "I didn't know it would feel like that! There was a girl I was friends with in the Vale, Randa...she told me nothing compared to it. I didn't believe her; I do now." 

Her voice is heavy and sweet, practically dripping with pleasure, and Sandor tugs her closer. To know that _he_ was the one to make Sansa feel such things...it's unlike anything else. 

"Sandor?" Her voice is heavier now, thick with the promise of sleep. 

"Hmm?" 

"Next time, will you show me how to pleasure you?" 

The thought makes him stir again; he will never be able to get enough of her. "If you'd like."

"I would." 

Sandor closes his eyes, his own exhaustion falling upon him as reflects upon the last hour. Suddenly a thought occurs, and before he can stop himself he says, "Sansa?" 

"Mmfph?" 

"I love you." He blurts it before he can stop himself, practically a mumble, but she hears. She shifts beside him, nuzzling closer into his side as she sleepily murmurs, 

"I know."


	28. Jaime VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> Once again, I'd like to thank you so, so much for your well-wishes regarding my mom. She has just come home from the hospital tonight, and is so happy for it. They've placed a picc in her arm, and she's receiving her medicine at home now. They're still trying to get rid of the infection with hopes that they won't have to take the implants out. Overall, she is doing very well. She's happy to be home. :)
> 
> And I'm happy to be writing again! Jaime's chapters always come to me so easily, so I thought starting up with him would be a good call. :)

  
_This is my way of saying goodbye_  
_'Cause I can't do it face to face_  
_I'm talking to you after it's too late_

Jaime dreams of being with a woman.

It’s dark, with only a sliver of moonlight filtering through the window. He is back in his rooms from Casterly Rock – rooms he hasn’t seen in years, though in his dream, it is as warm and inviting as it was in his childhood. He reclines on his bed with his arms folded behind his head, naked, as a woman drapes herself across him. Slender at first, soft, the shape of her hair tumbling down to her waist, with glittering green eyes that flash in the darkness despite the fact that the rest of her features remain shadowed. 

“Cersei,” he murmurs appreciatively, and she freezes. Suddenly he realizes that he was wrong – her hair is short, not long; her form is stocky and broad, not slender. And now pale blue eyes gaze at him, hurt, as Brienne recoils. 

“Wait,” he says, confused, as he sits up and reaches for her. But she spins away in an explosion of smoke, and he is left grasping at nothing, the room suddenly dusty and barren, the fireplace cold and abandoned. “I didn’t mean – “

Something slimy and wet runs the length of his cheek, and Jaime startles awake, gasping. For a moment he pauses, unsure where he is, the room around him entirely unfamiliar. But then it comes back to him – Braavos, Pentos, the inn. And hovering over him is the great, shaggy ebony shape of Daiyu, panting happily as she licks him again. 

His face twists in disgust as he gently pushes her off, sitting up. Laughter draws his gaze to the corner, eyes narrowing. Podrick and Brienne are seated at the small table, watching him with matching grins of amusement. 

“Good-morning,” Brienne says sweetly. “We would have woken you, but it seemed as if you were enjoying Daiyu’s company.”

“Very amusing,” Jaime remarks dryly as Podrick snorts. “How long have the two of you been awake?”

“A while,” Brienne replies, tossing Jaime an apple, which he barely manages to catch, fumbling it against his chest. _Damned hand._ “Podrick’s already gone to the docks, in fact; he found a ship that leaves for Lys in a few hours. So I’d suggest you get up and get something to eat.” 

“What about Clegane and Lady Sansa? Have you woken them?”

“Yes,” Podrick responds, grinning cheekily. “Clegane seemed to be in a good mood.”

Jaime snorts as Brienne flushes crimson, looking away. He’d hardly been able to believe it himself when he’d heard the telltale cries from across the hall the night before, faint but undeniable. Brienne had sat straight up in her bed, far too small for her and situated directly across from Jaime’s, muttering an alarmed, “Something’s wrong.”

From his bedroll on the floor, Podrick had laughed, and Jaime had been unable to hide his own snort of amusement. 

“What’s funny?” Brienne had demanded, reaching for her boots.

“Nothing, my lady, it’s just that…I don’t think she’s in _distress_.”

Brienne had paused, puzzling this over as another faint mewl had sounded, making Jaime huff and roll his eyes. “But then why…?”

She’d trailed off then, the seconds ticking by until at last she’d gasped in realization and hastily laid back down. When Jaime had cheekily remarked that he could demonstrate for her, he’d been rewarded by a boot to the head – it still throbbed even hours later. 

“Oh, you’re both _lewd_ ,” she snapped now as Podrick and Jaime dissolved into laughter. “You just wait until I tell Clegane you were laughing about it. Then I shan’t ever have to deal with the pair of you again.”

“You wound me, Brienne. Don't deny that you'd miss me,” Jaime says as he stands up, stretching. Though the cots had been small, it had been wonderful to sleep upon the downy feather mattress; he’d felt bad for Pod, but promised the lad that at the next inn, he would have the bed. 

Leaving a now squabbling Brienne and Podrick to themselves, he descends to the common room to order breakfast, nodding his head in greeting upon finding Clegane already there. The large man sits hunched over his plate, devouring it as Jaime joins him, quirking a brow. 

“Worked up an appetite last night, I see,” he remarks with a smirk as a serving girl brings him a trencher and cup of ale before scurrying off. Across from him, Sandor freezes. Slowly, so slowly, gray eyes travel up to meet his – and suddenly Jaime feels as if perhaps he should not have joked about what he overheard. 

“The fuck do you mean by that?” 

Despite the charged, dangerous feeling now radiating from the man across from him, Jaime cannot help himself. He snorts as he lifts a cold boiled egg to his mouth, chewing slowly, taking his time in answering. “If you’re going to play stupid, at least make sure to keep her quiet next time. I’d be surprised if the whole inn hadn’t heard you and your _wife_. Unless you'd like to tell me it was all some ruse to convince the commoners?”

There is a long moment where the two stare at each other, and Jaime’s thoughts whirl. He’s disturbed by his dream, disturbed by the feelings of jealousy that course through him. Not because it’s Sansa – he would never even dream of wanting her. But because it seems cruel that a man like Sandor Clegane can find happiness with Sansa Stark, when Jaime is left reeling and confused and heartbroken after the betrayal of his sister and his complicated feelings for Brienne. 

“It’s none of your godsdamned business what goes on between Sansa and I,” Sandor growls, voice low and menacing as he leans across the table towards Jaime. “And if you say a word of this to her, I’ll fucking gut you, do you hear me?”

Jaime scoffs. “Not my business? Did you even stop to think of the repercussions of bedding her? That it will make her my brother’s _wife_ for true?”

“We wouldn’t even have been in that bloody situation if it wasn’t for you,” Sandor snarls, slapping his hand down on the table so hard that Jaime’s goblet of ale tumbles over, silverware clattering. “I haven’t made her anyone else’s wife. I have only given her what she has asked for – nothing more, nothing less. Her well-being is my priority – has _always been_ my priority. I don’t need a sister-fucker to lecture me about bedding anyone. And I will not have you sit here and make assumptions about her honor when it is not your place to do so, do you hear me? I’d carefully consider whatever words are about to come pouring out that cunt mouth of yours, because you won’t be so pretty when you’re missing a hand and all of your teeth.” 

There is a long silence where the two glare at each other, breathing hard. But Jaime does not speak again. He knows it would be stupid to do so, and at last he looks away, gesturing to the wide-eyed maid to bring him another goblet of ale. He says nothing still when Sandor stands and strides angrily away.

\--- 

The horses are not pleased about being loaded onto another ship, snorting and stomping angrily the entire time. Even Honor is ornery, pulling at his reins as Jaime curses and coaxes him below deck. They find themselves on another tradeship, this one smaller, the captain cheerfully jingling their coins as he informs them that the trip will only take two days.

Two days. Two days until they are in Lys, free to settle for once, free to live. As they set sail, Jaime stands staring out at the sea moodily. 

When Brienne slips up to stand beside him, he does not glance at her, despite the way his entire body seems to become keenly focused upon her presence. 

“You’ve been sullen,” she remarks. He says nothing. “ _Jaime._ "

There is something tender in her voice; when he looks at her, her gaze is full of concern. Slowly, agonizingly, she reaches for where his hand resides on the railing of the ship. Her fingers are warm when they flit across his. 

“What’s happened?”

How can he explain to her? That he desires her, but is still haunted by the snarling, glittering eyed beauty that is his sister? How can he tell her that he wants to hold her, to love her, but that his heart feels fractured and incapable of such a feat? He will not give himself to her unless he is sure that Cersei is gone from his heart. He will not subject Brienne to that unfairness.

So he turns away silently, and after a moment, she is gone.

\---

From her place near the railing, Sansa cries out. 

“I see it!” Her voice is high and excited, drawing the gaze of everyone on the deck. Brienne is the first to reach her side, so Jaime approaches warily, not looking at her – just as she does not look at him. Soon, Sandor and Podrick join them.

There, on the horizon, is the outline of an island. A crisp autumn breeze rolls across the water, reaching them where they stand, ruffling Jaime’s hair as he turns his face towards the sun, eyes flitting closed.

“It’s beautiful,” remarks Brienne as they draw nearer, sighing. “Just as beautiful as I’d heard.”

“Certainly more beautiful than the sea,” remarks Podrick, whose seasickness had returned with a vengeance. 

“How long until we make port, do you think?” asks Sansa. 

“Not long,” comes the deep, rumbling voice of Sandor. “An hour, tops.”

There is a long silence, and Jaime’s eyes open. From behind them, he observes them. Podrick, black hair longer than ever and ruffled, skin a faint shade of green, but with his eyes sparkling happily as he looks up to Brienne. The she-warrior, towering over the young squire, laughing as she points out the fins of leaping dolphins. Sansa, leaning into the towering form of Sandor, her vivid hair lifted by the breeze. Clegane, looking more at ease than he has in years, his hair for once not covering his gruesome scars.

At that moment, Sansa turns, her Tully eyes locking onto Jaime, and she smiles. She reaches out with one hand, offering it to him, welcoming him into the group that only seconds ago he felt so distant from.

“Come, Ser Jaime,” she says kindly. “Come watch with us.”

Three more pairs of eyes turn to him. Podrick, innocent and excited. Brienne, confused but still welcoming. Sandor, guarded but not hostile. And so Jaime smiles, feeling his heart lift as he steps up to stand beside Sansa, who links her arm through his and grins – the link holding them all together. 

Standing side-by-side, they make port in Lys.


	29. Sansa XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with this chapter - it just did not want to cooperate! But finally, here it is. :) There will be more important notes at the end!

  
_You're somewhere I wanna go_  
_Nice and swift as we take it slow_  
_Oh, we're on our way_  
_Don't ever hesitate_

Lys is absolutely stunning. 

Sansa has never seen anything like it. From the sprawling palms to the clear waters, the friendly people to the array of fresh fruits and delicious meats, she is in love. 

They manage to find a quaint little dwelling to rent their first day there, with Jaime paying for the majority of it. It sports two decent-sized chambers, and one small office which Podrick offers to convert into his own room, so that Sansa and Sandor may share one bedroom...and Jaime and Brienne the other. 

Sansa is surprised by this, though Brienne insists with a face the color of a tomato that it's nothing romantic. Still, Sansa’s not entirely sure that she believes Brienne. She has seen the way the two of them look at each other, but it is not her place to press, so she only offers Brienne her ear whenever the woman needs it.

Much like the first, their second day in Lys is spent in relative ease, with the group unpacking. It feels strange to at last take her belongings, few as they are, from her bags. She hums to herself as she kneels on the floor, carefully folding her dresses and underthings, placing them neatly in the drawers she shares with Sandor. He and Jaime are busy grooming and saddling the horses, preparing to go out to search for work with Brienne. 

For not the first time, Sansa reflects on the things that occurred between she and Sandor before sailing for Lys, her cheeks heating. She had never known that a man could truly bring her _pleasure_ , after the way Septa Mordane had always insisted it was a woman’s duty to please her husband, regardless of her own feelings on the matter. A part of her had always been skeptical of Randa when she spoke of the joys of laying with a man. But after what she experienced that night, she is more inclined to believe her old friend. 

Thoughts of laying with Sandor inevitably brings her back to thoughts of her marriage to Tyrion Lannister. It is something she has mulled over nonstop as of late, with words she overheard between Petyr and one of his men ringing in her ear. _”Marriages can be annulled,”_ had said in that cunning voice of his. _”Specifically if they have never been consummated, or if they were performed under duress.”_ Both of these things apply to Sansa, but she had always believed that only the High Septon himself could annul a marriage, and as a fugitive from Westeros, she had no chance of achieving that.

But curiously, she’d gained another interesting piece of information from Brienne during one of their talks on the ship. _”The High Septon or a Council of Faith,”_ Brienne had said, confused as to why Sansa had squeaked and jolted. 

A Council of Faith. She’d heard nothing of such things, and knew not where to start. Did Lys even celebrate the Faith of the Seven? Or would she be stumped in her efforts once again?

She is still kneeling and chewing at her lip when Sandor ducks into the room, sword buckled at his waist. His gray eyes find her immediately, making something in her stomach tighten as she stands. He strides to her side, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist and pulling her against him. For a moment she allows her eyes to flit closed, enjoying the feel of his muscles beneath her slender fingers, the smell of him making her heartbeat pulse and soar. She feels him bend, and then his lips are on hers, one side rough, the other curiously smooth, his stubble scratching at her skin as she opens her mouth for him. Kissing him alone is enough to make her dizzy, and when he at last pulls away – clearly reluctantly – she sighs.

“Careful, Little Bird,” he says, a mysterious twinkle in his gaze. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll have to lock myself in this room with you all day.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Sansa dares, her cheeks faintly pink despite her bold words, and he laughs.

“Depends. For me? No. But you won’t be terribly happy when I can’t afford to keep us in this pretty little flat because I’m too busy worshipping you.” 

Truthfully it sounds wonderful, but Sansa forces herself to take a step back after placing one last soft kiss on his lips. 

“Podrick is staying here with you. Bar the door, and don’t go anywhere without him. I’d prefer that you didn’t go anywhere at all,” Sandor grumbles, his gaze sliding across her form protectively. 

“I thought I’d go take a look at the market,” Sansa says, not telling him of her true reasoning for going out. Not yet, when she does not wish to disappoint him. “I’ll take Pod and Daiyu, too.”

It’s clear that he’s not pleased with this, but surprisingly, Sandor does not object. He places a surprisingly gentle kiss to her forehead before ducking from the room, and Sansa laughs as she hears him instructing Podrick to “keep her bloody safe or I’ll gut you and hang you from the rafters for the crows.” 

After the sound of the front door closing sounds, Sansa weaves her hair into a quick braid and slips her pouch of coins into the bodice of her dress. Together she and Podrick slip out into the streets, Daiyu on her heels, and Podrick sticks faithfully close as they begin to stroll towards the market.

All over again, Sansa is enthralled by Lys. The buildings are well-cared for and bright, with colorful paint decorating their exterior. The ocean can always been seen on the horizon, the rays of sunlight glinting merrily off of the waves, and the call of gulls circling above is a constant stream above the chatter of life. As promised, the Lyseni are beautiful. Everywhere she looks there are lovely women clad in wisps of silk, their silver-gold hair and lilac eyes endlessly alluring. And the men are handsome as well, though Sansa finds that she is less fond of their pale skin, delicate features, and quick smiles as she once would have been.

The smell of the market is tantalizing, with foods Sansa has never seen beckoning to her as she and Podrick move through the array of bodies. The air is thick and pungent with spices that make her stomach growl, and even more tempting is the stalls that boast endless rolls of the softest silks, embroidered shawls, scented oils for bathing, luxurious furs, and strips of lace. She makes herself pass them by until her gaze falls upon a bright-eyed merchant selling spiced lamb roasted on a spit. She buys two for she and Podrick, and then asks the man, “Excuse me, but would you happen to know if there is a temple of the Seven here?”

“Of course, of course!” He exclaims, perpetually cheerful. “Lys boasts of their welcoming nature when it comes to faith, lovely lady! And the temple of the Seven is beautiful, though smaller than the temple of R'hllor.”

She smiles and listens intently as he points her away from the market, the instructions he offers fairly straightforward. Together she and Pod make their way through Lys, with Sansa slipping Daiyu the occasional piece of lamb. It is succulent, the spices tangy but not alarmingly so, the skin crisp and warm. _Sandor would like it,_ she thinks. _I’ll have to buy him some, on the way back._

As the merchant had promised, the temple was not difficult to find. It was a modest dwelling, the telltale seven pointed star towering from the roof, gleaming white stone. Together she and Podrick duck inside, and Sansa tries to still the pounding of her heart. 

A robed man smiles at the sight of them and steps forward, holding his arms out in welcome. “Straight from Westeros, I’d think,” he says, taking in the sight of them. “We get so few visitors here, I’m afraid. I am Septon Colren Have you simply come to pray, my children?”

“No, Septon,” Sansa says politely, her hands clasped demurely before her. “I would ask if perhaps you had somewhere private we could speak?” 

The Septon nods immediately, unalarmed by her request. He leads them through a door directly beside a statue of the Maiden – something that Sansa thinks is ironic. Through the door they find a moderate sized chamber, and Podrick busies himself with examining one of the many bookshelves lining the walls as Colren leads Sansa over to a set of chairs near the colored pane windows. 

“Now, child, what is it you wish to speak with me about?” He asks once they are comfortable.

Sansa swallows, looking down at her hands. She’s suddenly afraid, because this is her last option, and she does not know what she will do if she is turned away. But she lowers her voice, leans towards Septon Colren, and begins. 

“I am from Westeros, just as you assumed. I…I was married to a man against my will some time ago. I did not consent to this marriage, but I had no choice; my life was in the hands of those who arranged it. The marriage was also never consummated. I do not know where my husband is now; he fled Westeros long before I did, and has not been heard of since. But no longer can I live beneath the shadow of a man who was never my husband for true. I wish to know if there is a way my marriage can be annulled – without returning to Westeros.” His eyes gleam with understanding at this, but he does not interrupt her. “I’d heard…I’d heard that a Council of Faith can determine if a marriage may be annulled. I was hoping that perhaps there was a Council here.”  
Septon Colren sits back, lifting a hand to rub at the stubble upon his chin. He is an older man, with kind eyes and thick brows that furrow above his eyes. “We do have a Council here,” he admits, and Sansa’s heart leaps. “A small one. But it is recognized by the High Septon. And we are able to do what you seek. But I will need to know exactly who you are, my dear, and who your husband is. Fear not, for whatever you tell me is safe. I will not put you in danger.”

It’s difficult, to tell Colren of her lineage, her imprisonment by the Lannisters, her unwanted marriage to the Imp – and all that follows. He listens intently, and Sansa is relieved to find that there is no judgment in his gaze, no betrayal. 

“It is a terrible tale that you have told,” Colren says at last. “And I understand perfectly why you wish to be completely free of your tormentors.” She thinks of Jaime, but says nothing. “The Council will need to inspect you, to ensure that your maidenhead is truly intact. We have a Septa who will do so, to ensure your highest comfort. And if what you say is true, then we will annul your marriage. We will have to write to the High Septon to ensure that your marriage to Tyrion Lannister is struck from the records, however.”

At this, Sansa deflates. “He’ll know the letter is from Lys. And if the Queen discovers that I am here…”

“Peace,” Colren says, smiling. “I will send a raven to the Council in Braavos, and in turn, _they_ will inform the High Septon. As long as the letter is signed by the Council here, they will know that we have ensured your eligibility for annulment, and will sign the letter to the High Septon with their own names. We take your safety and your wishes very seriously, Lady Stark.”

At this, tears well in Sansa’s eyes. She’d been so certain that things would go wrong – because didn’t they always? And yet at last she’d been granted a blessing, a sign that perhaps Lys would turn out to be a haven indeed. 

“When can I be…inspected?” Sansa asks. 

“Now, if you wish. I will go retrieve the Septa, and speak with the rest of the Council while she examines you. Shall I escort your companion outside to wait?”

“Please,” Sansa says, aiming a reassuring smile in Podrick’s direction as Septon Colren rises. He wavers for only a moment before he follows the Septon, Daiyu trailing behind him.

It does not take long for the Septa to come. She knocks lightly before slipping into the room, her smile just as kind as Colren’s had been. Sansa smiles in return as the Septa begins to pull the curtains on the windows, studying the woman. She is younger than Septa Mordane had been, and far less severe. When at last the Septa turns to her, Sansa stands. 

“It will be uncomfortable, dear,” the Septa informs her with a small smile, “but brief. If you’ll pull aside your undergarments and skirts, and lay on the divan there…”

Sansa’s hands tremble as she moved to seat herself upon the divan, nervously tugging up her skirts. _It’s a woman. She won’t hurt you. It’s alright,_ she tells herself as she pushes aside her undergarments and lays back.

Much like the Septa promised, it is uncomfortable but swift. Sansa tries to force herself to relax as the Septa probes, and the moment the older woman’s fingers brush a barrier that makes Sansa wince, the woman withdraws.

The Septa turns away, granting Sansa privacy to fix her clothing. “Well, dear, that’s all there is to it,” she says as she moves to a basin of water to wash her hands. “You’re indeed a maiden still. If you’ll wait here, I’ll inform Septon Colren and the remainder of the Council.”

Sansa holds her breath until the Septa is gone, the door shutting gently. And then she bows her head and cries – tears of joy that roll down her nose and settle upon her skirts.

_I cannot wait to tell Sandor._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! The Council of the Faith. 
> 
> There was not a whole lot of information on this Council in the books at all, nor on the ASOIAF Wiki. Which meant that I had a wonderful opportunity to take the idea and run with it to fit it into the storyline. ;) Basically, a Council can annul a marriage without needing approval from the High Septon, from what I have gathered. And since Lys is described on Wiki as catering to ALL religions in the world of ASOIAF, I figured it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that they would have a Council of the Seven there. Since nothing is specified concerning how many councils there are (they are described as _a_ Council of the Faith, not _the_ Council, soo I assumed there can be multiple ones?), I think this will work out decently without seeming like I found a magical way to make Sansa a free woman again.
> 
> For now. ;) We'll see more of Lys in the next chapter. I just needed to get this done!


	30. Author's Note

Hello, guys!

I'm sorry if you guys got a notification for this and thought it was an update - but! I am determined to get this story going again. :)

I'll be completely honest - a part of my absence was a difficult time with life, and part of it was lost interest in this story. I kept hoping my love for this story would come back, I kept tucking it away into the back of my mind, refusing to forget it. And you guys kept leaving supportive comments, kept leaving kudos, and finally tonight, I realized I missed this fic. I fully intend to begin writing it again.

I went through a rough time during Christmas and the weeks leading up to it. I was broke, I was sick (my doctor kept continuously and seemingly purposely ignoring me when I called to make appointments and ask for refills for my anxiety medicine, which I had severe withdrawl without), it was the final leg of the semester, and man, I was exhausted. After Christmas, my hours at work changed to odd ones that just didn't suite me, and I continued to suffer dizziness, brain zaps, and general depression without. I took up whittling to have something to do with my hands when I was anxious; I took supplements galore and suffered through it for weeks. 

And now...here I am. Still a little dizzy some days, still a little tired, still chugging on. And guys, I am so sorry. It was two months yesterday since I posted, and I feel so terrible for leaving you all hanging with not a single word. But I appreciate your support more than I can explain; I adore you all, and I am determined to continue with this story. So give me a day or two to reread what I've written, to get back into the hang of things...and I'll be back to posting. :)


	31. Jaime VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So can I just say that you guys are great? Seriously, I was blown away by all of the kind words, and especially by how patient you guys have been. I was so apprehensive to try to come back to this after my abrupt "abandonment". But once again I've been reminded that I have the most amazing, supportive, caring readers. Thank all of you, so much. 
> 
> I decided to ease back in with Jaime. For some reason he's so easy for me to write;  
> it's like he's there, waiting, asking, "well, what took you so long? Let's get to it!" 
> 
> It honestly feels so good to have completed a chapter. Until I'm 100%, I can't assure anyone that I'll be doing rapid fire updates like I was before. But on days like today, where I'm feeling alright and fairly normal, I'll do what I can. Brick by brick. :)

  
_Cause enough is enough, you're jaded_   
_Golden years left you behind_   
_You cannot replace them_   


It's been a productive day all-in-all, Jaime supposes. 

He's seated upon Honor, his hand loosely gripping the reins as he lets the horse trot merrily through the streets. It's been only a day and already the eager creature knows where his new home is - likely due to the milk oats that the children of their nearest neighbors slipped by to feed him that morning, Jaime thinks. Spoiled horse. 

He, Brienne, and Clegane had separated earlier in the day to search for employment. It is strange, Jaime thinks, to find himself in the position where he must rely upon his skills to live. He'd always been...fortunate, in the coin department, due to his lineage and place serving the King's Guard. But things are different now, Jaime reminds himself. 

He'd been apprehensive about the possibility of finding work with one hand. He is still proficient with his sword, of course, but who would believe him? But in the end his worries had been for naught; he'd found a little shop selling brightly colored glass baubles that had drawn his eye. He'd only stopped to look, but he couldn't help overhearing the quiet argument between a man, the presumed owner, and his wife. 

"...need more help around here since Lenna left. Can't believe that girl ran off to Braavos. Bah."

"You have to let the children make lives for themselves," the wife said in a tone that made Jaime think this was not the first time they'd had this argument. 

"I know that. But there's only so much I can do when I'm trying to shape the glass. It's a right pain in my arse to scramble for tools and the mix, then I got to keep the kilns hot, make sure they're all dated, make sure we're not low on sand, keep track of the shipments coming in...and I know you wanna help, Tessa, but you gotta keep an eye on the front of the store. And your arthritis..."

He'd stopped then, seeing Jaime lingering near, his eyes narrowing. He was an older man but fit for his age, with bulging arms littered with burn marks and scars. "Can I help ya?"

"Well, perhaps. It's just that I couldn't help overhearing," Jaime had hedged, watching as the wife - Tessa - turned her shrewd gaze upon him. She was portly, with tired lines around her eyes and gnarled fingers that nearly made Jaime wince. "I've just arrived here, you see, and I'm looking for honest work. Perhaps, if you were in need of help..."

The man sized him up for a long moment, wiping his hands on his apron. "Won't be easy work, son. The back rooms are swelterin', the mixtures have a way of gettin' in places you don't want grit, and most of it will just be you bringing me tools, keeping track of shipment records, keeping the kilns hot...you'd have to stay late, sometimes overnight when I can't, to make sure they're always ready to go. It's a small shop, but don't be fooled. We keep busy."

It had sounded like nothing he couldn't handle. Certainly not the glamorous life of a knight, but those days were long gone. Trying not to let the shame color his mood, Jaime had cleared his throat and lifted his stump. "Would this, ah, be a problem? I can lift things well enough."

The man chewed at his lip and shrugged. "Don't see why that would get in the way. You won't be blowin' or shapin' the glass. What's your name?"

"Aren," Jaime'd said without pause, the name of a servant boy who'd been at Casterly Rock when he was young. 

"I'm Hugar, and this here's my wife, Tessa. She mostly keeps an eye on the shop and sales, these days. If you work hard, the pay will be generous. You start in the mornin', at dawn. Sound fair?" 

It had. 

He heaves a sigh as at last the little dwelling he'll come to know as home appears. It's tucked neatly between a shop and another flat a small distance away, with a gate leading to a small courtyard, the stables to one side and the flat to the other. 

Honor whinnies a greeting to Stranger and Brienne's horse as Jaime dismounts and leads him into the stable to brush him down. No surprise that Jaime is the last to return; he'd dawdled long enough. 

When Honor is gleaming and stabled, happily munching away on hay, Jaime slips across the courtyard to the flat. 

The moment the door opens, the sound of muffled bickering reaches his ears. 

He quirks a brow at Brienne and Podrick as he steps inside, both who are seated at the small dining table. Brienne is chewing at her lip, and Podrick is nervously fiddling with the frayed edges of his tunic, refusing to look up. From down the hallway, the sound of Sandor's rumbling voice sounds. Though Jaime cannot make out the what he is saying, he does not miss the anger laced heavily through the words. 

"Did I miss something?" he asks lightly, shrugging out of his cloak. "I'm gone for an afternoon and I come back to chaos."

"Lady Sansa and Clegane are having a row."

"Yes, clearly, Podrick. Why?"

"Well," Podrick hedges, drawing out the word. Jaime waits as he plops down across from Brienne, reaching curiously for a wrapped lump of cloth on the table, which is emitting heavenly smells. Some kind of spiced, skewered meat. He lifts it to his mouth, letting his eyes flit closed briefly when he takes a bit. Lamb. _Heavenly_ lamb. 

"Lady Sansa wanted to go the market, so I escorted her. And she found a sept of the Seven," Podrick finally says, his shoulders drooping. "I didn't mean any harm, and neither did Lady Sansa. She spoke to the Septon about...about getting her marriage to Tyrion annulled. I left the room - only for a second, for the lady's modesty - and then she came out and she was crying but she was happy -"

"I arrived after Clegane," Brienne interrupts the stuttering, miserable Podrick. "And she told us, all of us together, that she'd had her marriage annulled."

"And Clegane is angry, because..." Jaime prompts. He'd thought the man would be ecstatic. And at last, Sansa is free of his brother and the Lannister name. 

"The Septon had to send a missive to King's Landing, for the marriage to be struck from the records."

Ah. "And my dear sister, should the High Septon inform her, will know that it's addressed from Lys."

"Lady Sansa said the Septon promised to have Braavos' Council send it," Podrick says miserably. "He said there's tension between the Crown and the High Septon, anyways. Mayhaps the Queen Regent won't even hear..."

"But mayhaps she will," Jaime says. "If it is truly sent from Braavos, then she'll only know that Sansa is in Essos. Cersei is sharp; she may already suspect as much. We'll just have to be terribly careful."

"Yes, but try to tell that to Clegane and he - " Brienne's mouth snaps shut as the sound of glass shattering sounds from the bedroom, and then silence. 

It's broken by the sound of a door slamming open with enough force to make Podrick jump. Jaime winces as Sandor storms down the hall, not bothering to glance in their direction before he bursts from the flat, the door thundering shut behind him. 

"Well," Jaime drawls as he finishes his lamb. "He's in a cheerful mood."

Brienne stands abruptly, fuming. "How can you be so - "

Jaime holds up his hand, sighing as he stands. "We don't need two storms brewing under the same roof. I'm simply trying to...alleviate the tension. Allow me to speak with Sansa."

He's not sure what he'll find, really, but Jaime became an expert at navigating temper tantrums during his time spent with Cersei. Cautiously he maneuvers down the hall, stopping before the room that Clegane and Sansa share. The door is still wide open, so he pokes his head inside. 

He doesn't see Sansa at first. When at last he does, he sighs, and she glances up at him with red-rimmed eyes. 

She's kneeling near the cold hearth, a cloth wrapped around her hand for protection as she sweeps bits of glass from a shattered vase into a little pile. He moves to kneel beside her, taking the cloth from her as he finishes the task. Daiyu hovers close beside Sansa, panting anxiously but not leaving the girls side. 

"I apologize that you all...had to hear that," she says, her voice thick but somehow not trembling despite the dampness of her eyes. 

"No need. It's not the first time any of us have seen Clegane behave like a rabid aurochs."

She smiles at that, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Jaime stands when he's finished picking tiny pieces of glass from the wooden floors, scooping them into the cloth and tying it to later discard. He holds out a hand to Sansa, gently helping her to her feet and into one of the chairs by the sole window. 

"I was not trying to be foolish or reckless," she says, twisting her fingers in the layers of her skirts. "I just wanted to be..."

"Free?" Jaime asks. It's a desire he knows too well; he wishes only to be free of Cersei's clutches, to forget the time that they spent together. If only he could purge it from his mind. "Personally, from what Podrick has told me, there's a good chance nothing will come of this. If the Septon is trustworthy, that is. And if they _do_ find us here, well...we've weathered worse, haven't we?"

Her shoulders hunch and she looks away. "That's what I tried to tell Sandor. But he told me that I'd been _stupid_."

"He's worried for your safety. That does not mean that the way he handled it was...proper. Hells, he botched it, no surprise there. Give him time. He'll start to feel like an ass, he'll come slinking back in like a misbehaved dog, and all will be well. Though personally, _I_ think you should make him squirm before you forgive him."

A tiny laugh escapes from her - nothing like her usual mirth, but Jaime will take it. Sensing that she needs time alone, he stands, briefly placing his hand on her shoulder in comfort. It feels awkward to comfort someone, when it's something he hasn't done much before. But she seems grateful, and that's enough. 

He gathers the remains of the vase and quietly slips from the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

\---

It's strange, to share a room and a bed with Brienne. 

It's entirely proper, of course. Jaime is careful to give her her privacy, to attempt to preserve her modesty. Even if they share a bed, it's large enough for him to keep to his own side and give her space. It's not as if they haven't slept in such close proximity before, but now it is...different. He cannot forget how he turned her away upon the trip to Lys, and neither can she. 

A part of him feels guilty. He does want her, in surprisingly every way. He's sure that she thinks he doesn't, and he wants to tell her how very wrong she is. But it's not fair to her - that's what Jaime keeps coming back to. He won't admit his feelings to her until he's sure that he can give her _all_ of him. 

But will she even want him then, he wonders? It's something he mulls over as he sits by the crackling fire in their chambers, nursing his second goblet of wine. Brienne sits with her back to the headboard of the bed, dressed in her usual night-garb of a tunic and trousers, a book forgotten in her lap. 

"Clegane still hasn't returned," she says suddenly, dragging him out of his thoughts. "I'm sure we would have heard him stomping in like a herd of oxen. I told Pod to keep an eye out, still..."

"He's a big boy," Jaime replies mildly. "He'll be fine."

"It's not him I'm worried about," Brienne snips. "It's Sansa."

Jaime sighs and drags a hand through his hair. "It's something that they're going to have to overcome on their own, Brienne."

"Obviously. But that doesn't mean I can't sit here and entertain the idea of castrating him if he's off drinking and whoring while she waits here, crying."

"I doubt he's whoring. Drinking, maybe."

He feels her flat gaze as she glares at him, and he's unable to resist flashing her a grin. She scowls. 

"He had a reputation in King's Landing. And this is _Lys_ , home of the most lovely, talented courtesans, as you like to mention frequently."

"I've mentioned it twice," Jaime replies, affronted. "The point, however, is that Sandor Clegane looks at Sansa like the sun shines out of her arse - "

" _Jaime_ \- "

" - and I doubt he's going to throw that all away for some pretty little whore. Especially now that Sansa is truly available. Now, can we talk about something else? Perhaps the fact that you never told me where you'll be working?"

She says nothing for a moment, and Jaime wonders if he's gone too far. But then she sighs and says, "on the docks. There's a wealthy merchant who has shipments arriving and departing left and right. He wants me to keep an eye on his supplies - and his crew. There's been an apparent increase in thieves."

"The docks," he repeats, nodding as he recalls various conversations with Brienne throughout their long period of being companions. "I imagine you're happy about that. Remind you of home?"

"A bit, yes. Lys is lovely. The water is nearly the same shade as Tarth - such a brilliant blue." She pauses, wistfully staring into the distance, only glancing back to him when he stands and moves around to his side of the bed. Like she, he keeps his breeches and tunic on as he lays down, sighing at the protesting ache in his spine and shoulders. 

He tells her about his own employment, and how early he must rise. Smiling sympathetically, she leans over to blow out the sole remaining candle, leaving the pair in darkness. 

The flat is quiet, the sound of their mingled breathing the only thing breaking the silence. Though they do not touch, he can feel the dip of the mattress where she lays. It's strangely comforting. 

He's just beginning to doze when the sound of the front door clicking open and closing softly sounds. Jaime does not stir, listening as the heavy tread of footsteps pads down the hall, passing their door. 

His eyes flit open and he glances over to see if Brienne has noticed that Clegane has returned at last. 

But her eyes are closed, her face oddly serene in sleep, her features familiar despite the way he has to squint in the darkness to see her.


	32. Sandor IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man...this was difficult for me to get out. I have my ups and downs. But I think I'm going to start rewatching GoT, so hopefully that will give my muse a big kick in the rear! 
> 
> This one is shorter than others, and I apologize for that. But I didn't want to continue and force it...so I just let it end where it felt natural.

  
_And then I feel upon my lips again_  
_A taste of honey_  
_Tasting much sweeter than wine_  


It takes a long time for his rage to subside.

Sandor had faltered at first, when he’d stormed from the flat and found himself on the streets of Lys. Where did one go to blow off steam in a foreign place? For a moment he’d stood wavering, and then with a string of curses slipping from his mouth that alarmed a passing woman, he stormed forward until he found the nearest tavern.

He’d settled at a table in the back corner and ordered the cheapest wine, ignoring the acidic taste of it as he’d glowered at anyone who dared draw too near. And then Sandor Clegane had gotten completely and thoroughly drunk.

It didn’t help – it never did. His anger and worries still swirled in his head like a dark storm, Sansa the heart of it. He’d been cruel with her, his terror over something happening to her making him snap and snarl until he’d turned away from her tearful eyes, stepped over the glass of the shattered vase, and left.

He’d regretted it immediately. He didn’t like hurting her; it only made him feel like a monster, especially when she’d been so happy to inform him that she’d set aside her marriage for him. Perhaps that was what made his ire rise so quickly – the fact that she’d potentially put herself in harm’s way for _him_.

He knows that he can’t avoid her forever. So finally, when he’s good and drunk, he ambles from the tavern and makes his way back to the flat. He stands outside of the door for a long time, wavering. He doesn’t know what he’ll find inside, though he’s sure Brienne is ready to gut him. Let her try.

But she’s not awake when at last he steps inside. No one is. 

As quietly as a drunken man of his size can manage, he makes his way down the hall. When he reaches the door to the bedroom that he shares with Sansa, he wavers for a moment before pushing it open, stepping inside.

There’s a single candle burning, and his eyes go to the bed, where Sansa is curled beneath the blankets. He can’t tell if she’s awake or not, so he moves over to a chair beside the cold hearth, grunting softly as he collapses into and begins to wrestle with his boots. Damn clumsy fingers; he’d forgotten how bumbling and uncoordinated he was when drunk.

When at last he has them off, he leans back in the chair, sighing. He doesn’t know if he’ll be welcome in the bed tonight – doesn’t know if he can stand being so close to her after he’d hurt her. He lets his head tip back until it’s resting against the chair, and his eyes drift closed. He stays like that for a moment, until suddenly the blankets on the bed shift, the sound making his eyes creep open. There’s a glimpse of fiery hair, but she keeps her back to him, despite the fact that she’s clearly awake.

They sit in silence, for a while. In the end, it’s she who speaks first. 

“You’re drunk.”

He rasps out a laugh, but quiets when he sees the way her shoulders stiffen in the dying light. “Aye.”

“And did you find a nice _courtesan_ to warm you, too?”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, he lurches to his feet and crosses the room in a few unsteady strides. One large hand reaches out, gripping her shoulder firmly but not hard enough to hurt her as he forces her to turn onto her back. When her eyes lift to meet his, the deep blue depths are filled with anger, indignation, and pain. 

“You think I stormed off to find a whore?”

“It would not surprise me.”

The words sting, and he feels his face contort in a snarl, but before he can bite out the cruel words that curl on his tongue like curdled milk, he forces himself to stop. He can practically hear the sodding Elder Brother chiding him to not fall back into his old ways, to not let the rage inside of him win. But it’s easier said than done, and it takes him several breaths to compose himself.

Unfortunately by then, Sansa has made her own assumptions. She sits up suddenly, startling him, her hair flying around her face as she glares at him like the proper Northern princess that she is. “If you do not wish to be with me now that I’ve set my marriage aside, that is fine. I thought that you would be _happy_ , but perhaps that was presumptuous of me. Perhaps I was only a…a passing amusement, or – “

She stops when he lurches forward suddenly, his large, calloused palms cupping her chin, forcing her to tilt her head back and look at him. “Is that really what you think of me, Little Bird? You think I risked _everything_ to cross the seas with you, to protect you, only because you’re a ‘passing amusement’?”

“Then why else would you be so…” She pauses and glances down, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. The drunken, lecherous part of his mind urges Sandor to kiss her, to nibble at her lip _for_ her, but another part of him knows that this conversation is important.

“I left because I was frightened, Sansa.” It takes everything in him to admit it to her; he does not want her to see him as weak, or childish – but he has to make her understand. “If word reaches Cersei somehow, if she learns that we are here…I cannot protect you against a legion of soldiers, though I’ll damn sure try. I cannot lose you, all because you thought that you needed to set aside your marriage for me.”

She is quiet for a long time; long enough to make him think that he’s well and truly botched it. But then she slides to the other side of the bed, her slender fingers holding up the blankets, inviting him to join her. Sandor is not stupid enough to refuse; he sighs as he moves to lay beside her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. At first she does not touch him, but then suddenly she’s reaching for him, and he folds her into his arms, cradling her against his broad chest. He’s _terrified_ that the only good thing he has left will be ripped from him, like everything else in his life. When her hand slides beneath his tunic to settle over his heart, his eyes begin to sting dangerously, threatening tears. He blames the wine, though a part of him knows that it’s more than that. 

“We’ll speak more on it tomorrow, when you are sober,” she whispers, her fingers toying with the light dusting of hair upon his chest. “If Brienne doesn’t kill you, first.”

“I knew she’d be furious,” he groans, loving the way her hushed giggle sounds. “I’ll have to fight her for your honor.”

“Yes, I think she was ready to hunt you down and skin you earlier.”

“Well, bugger her.” He's beginning to really feel the effects of the wine now, his head pounding, his eyes heavy. But Sandor cannot sleep without saying what he hasn't yet. "Sansa?"

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry, Little Bird."

She nuzzles closer against him, the scent of lavender wafting from her hair, making him inhale deeply as she tilts her chin up, her lips meeting his briefly in a kiss so sweet that it makes him ache, his guilt tripling. But when she pulls away to nestle her face in the crook of his shoulder, her voice is as soft as velvet when she murmurs, "I know."


	33. Sansa XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited chapter!
> 
> I know, I know. You guys have been waiting so patiently FOREVER, and I very much appreciate the continued support and comments. Thank you, all of you - new followers and old! - for sticking it out with me. 
> 
> I spent a lot of time finalizing the entire plot for the remainder of this story, which gave me a huge burst of muse. :) I hope you all enjoy!

_And I don't want the world to see me_  
_'Cause I don't think that they'd understand_  
_When everything's meant to be broken_  
_I just want you to know who I am_

The next morning, as Sansa slowly slips from the realm of dreams, for a moment she nearly forgets the events of the previous day.

Only a heartbeat - only a breath. 

Then the shame comes flooding in. 

Sandor had risen before she, and the room is still, quiet. Sansa sits up in bed with a little groan, covering her face. She'd been so upset when he'd stormed out, so worried when he hadn't come home. Those emotions had melded into irrational anger when he'd come in drunk, and she'd made cruel accusations that made her cringe to think on now. Sandor's actions had wounded her, but she understood now why he'd behaved the way he had. He was not perfect - and neither was she. 

With a little sigh, Sansa slips from the warmth of the bed, pulling her gown close around her. For a moment she wavers near the window, debating between hiding in her room or facing whoever remained in the house. 

But the the door opens, and the looming figure of Sandor ducks beneath the frame. In one hand is a plate of fruit with two empty cups balanced upon it, and in the other he carries a pitcher of water. 

His eyes snap to hers immediately, and she feels strangely nervous as he shuts the door behind him and proceeds into the room, placing his haul on the table before sprawling in one of the chairs. Tentatively, Sansa moves to perch in the chair across from him, posture perfect as she watches him begin to pick at the slices of pears. 

Finally, when the silence is too much, she says softly, "Sandor."

He pauses and glances up at her, and before Sansa can stop herself, the words are rushing from her mouth. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have accused you of such terrible things. I do not know why I did. I...I was worried and frustrated, and it made me angry, and oh, I said such awful things. I do not think that I'm a passing amusement to you, not truly."

He says nothing for a moment, simply sits back and fills the glasses with water. Sansa waits nervously, heart in her throat, hands clasped on her lap. 

"I hope you do not think so lowly of me, Little Bird," he says at last, the endearment making her heart leap. "But I wouldn't blame you, if you did. I was a right cunt, raging at you and then storming out to get piss drunk. Can you forgive me for that?"

"There is nothing to forgive," Sansa rushes to say, for she had thought of this so much lately. "You were right. What I did...it was reckless, and I will never forgive myself if I brought harm upon us with my actions. I suppose I just wished to be free of the Lannister name once and for all. I wanted...to be free to be yours."

"Is that really what you want, Sansa?" He asks, a sudden burning intensity in his gaze. "To belong to a dog? I am not kind, I am not handsome; I am rough and scarred and cruel. I have spent my life doing terrible things, things that should make you hate me. I have drank and whored my way through most of King's Landing. And despite that, I...I would love you. I would protect you, Little Bird, always. But if you think you deserve better - and you fucking do - then I will not judge you that."

It's not the first time he's voiced his doubts, but Sansa is patient. She understands why. He does not shy away from her when she stands and moves around the table to settle on his lap, her hands moving up to cup his face. 

"Sandor. You and I...we have been through so much together. We have each suffered, in our own ways. Time and time again at King's Landing, you tried to protect me, in your own way. And even afterwards, you found me, you spirited me away from Gregor's clutches, you took me across the sea to safety. There will never be a moment in my life where I do not thank you for that. But that is not why I want you. I want you because you are a good man, the type of man that no spoiled prince could ever rival with. You may not see it, but I do, every day. I want you because I love you, Sandor. I do. Do not say that I deserve better; I deserve you, and you deserve me."

His arms go around her abruptly then, pulling her to him as he bows his head to rest it against her shoulder. She sighs and strokes his hair, inhaling the scent of him, letting him listen to the racing of her heart as he shifts his head so that his ear rests against her chest. The guilt for how she spoke to him last night is not gone, and she thinks that she will have to spend some time making up for it, even if he tells her that she doesn't need to. She was not lying when she said she loved him; she does, with all of her jaded heart. 

"You really want to be Sansa Clegane, then?" He asks, his voice so low that she nearly misses it. 

"If you would have me."

He barks out a laugh at that. "Aye, Little Bird. I don't think that will be a problem. But perhaps...we should wait for just a bit."

That makes sense, she thinks. Her marriage was only just annulled, and though she knows she wishes to be his, she will wait if that's what he wants. "Of course. In the meantime, perhaps I should ask Brienne and the others to bear witness, for when the time comes?"

"Suppose you should. I'll ask the Lion, though."

She almost asks why - but she doesn't. She knows that Jaime and Sandor's relationship is odd, strained at times; perhaps this will be a way for them to settle...well. Something. 

They stay like that for a time, picking at the food, feeding each other until it's gone. And then Sandor stands, gently setting Sansa on the floor and sighing. 

"As much as I'd rather not, I should be going now. I need to go back into the city."

"Oh! I never asked you...did you find work?"

"Possibly. There was a lad inquiring after a sellsword for his master yesterday; told me to come back today to meet them. Didn't give much information."

"You'll be careful, won't you?"

"Aye. Nothing is taking me away from you, so don't ruffle your feathers."

She hums at this, pleased to see that things have easily returned to how they were before. She'd been worried for a time that she might have ruined everything, but it seems as if Sandor will not give up on her so easily. 

She's quick about dressing herself and combing out her hair, making a mental note to bathe later. There's a wooden tub in the room, thankfully, though Lys also has bath houses. 

When she's finished, clothed in a dress of pale gray with very simple silver stitching, she and Sandor emerge from the room only to find that Jaime left for his profession long ago, and Brienne several hours after. Podrick is seated at the kitchen table, using a cloth to polish his leather boots. 

"Keep an eye on this one," Sandor rasps, his broad hand coming to rest atop Sansa's head. She's reminded again of how very large he is compared to her as she leans briefly into his side, reveling in his nearness. She never would have thought that the snarling, brutish man she'd first encountered in Winterfell would come to be so subdued and at ease with her, but she supposes that stranger things have happened. 

"Yes, of course," Podrick says dutifully, aiming a smile in Sansa's direction. He seems relived to see that the two of them have settled their differences from the night before, and he carefully turns away as Sandor leans down to brush a brief kiss across Sansa's lips. 

"Stay inside today. No more trouble for you. You'll give me bloody gray hairs."

"You'd still be handsome," she says sweetly, and he rasps a laugh that echoes even after he's ducked out of the flat. 

She's still smiling as she sits across from Pod, beginning to pick idly at the grapes on the table, though it's more for something to do with her hands, since she's full from breakfast. 

"How are you, m'lady?" Podrick pipes up at last, breaking the silence between them. Sansa knows what he's really asking, and she is genuine in her response when she answers. 

"Just fine. Everything is settled now. I apologize, Podrick, if I put you in a terrible situation by asking you to accompany me to the sept."

"Oh, it's nothing. Brienne cuffed me a few times, but not terribly hard." It's a joke, and it makes her laugh, something he seems delighted by. 

The day passes slowly without Sandor there, though Podrick makes good company, listening with genuine interest as she tells him stories about her childhood in Winterfell, even asking several questions. 

After some time she grows bored enough to retreat into the bedroom and bathe, though it's early, redressing herself in her clean gown after relaxing in the warm water for a while. She sets to work washing linens then, and when she's finished that, she wanders back into the main room, only to fine that Podrick has fallen asleep in one of the worn but comfortable chairs in the sitting room with Daiyu snoring at his feet. Smiling, she settles into one across from him, beginning to braid her hair into a series of intricate twists.

\---

Brienne is the first to return, and as she comes tromping in smelling of brine, she plops down something wrapped in brown paper on the table.

Podrick is awake by now, he and Sansa playing a game of cards that they found discarded on one of the shelves. They both rise and move into the kitchen to greet Brienne, who yawns and plops down in one of the chairs – though she perks at the sight of Sansa, her bright blue eyes scouring the smaller woman. In her gaze is a wordless question, and Sansa nods to show that she is alright. 

“How were the docks?” She asks, and Brienne shrugs.

“Entirely uneventful, though that’s a good thing. Seems thieves are less likely to get handsy with me lurking about. I brought home a few fish for dinner.”

Sansa knows nothing about cleaning and cooking fish, but Brienne assures them that they are already scaled, and instructs Podrick on how to prepare them for the oven before retreating to her rooms to bathe.

Sansa helps as much as she can, peeling potatoes and carrots that Brienne had brought home the day before, seeming having taken it upon herself to ensure that the household is fed. It’s not long before they have the vegetables stewing in a pot of boiling water, and the fish baking in the oven, covered in bits of various herbs and spices.

Sandor is the next to return, though Jaime isn’t far behind. Sandor comes lumbering into the kitchen and stoops over where Sansa sits at the table, brushing his lips over her forehead.

“How did it go?” She asks, not bothering to try to hide her serene smile. 

“Well. The lad took me to meet with some wealthy fucker named Tregar Ormollen. Too rich for his own good, calls himself a merchant prince. Says he lives in a manse on the outskirts of the city and needs another sellsword to help with guard duty after one of his retired. Needs help guarding his concubines and his treasures.”

“Concubines?” Sansa asks with a raised brow. 

“Mm. The bloody Dragon Queen abolished slavery in a few of the free cities, but not Lys. Though from the way Ormollen talks, seems like all of his are there willingly. Probably more for his gold than his cock.”

“ _Language_ ,” Brienne admonishes as she ducks back into the room, and Jaime, who’d been tiredly drowsing in one of the armchairs, wearily lifts himself to go take his own bath.

“Bugger that. What are you, my mother?”

Sansa can senses tension between the two, seemingly born of the events of last night. Luckily, though, Podrick pipes up at that moment.

“The vegetables are done, and the fish won’t be long. It smells good.”

And it did. It was nothing compared to the lavish meals Sansa had once eaten, but she does not miss them. No, she’d rather have a simple hot meal with all of her beloved companions.

By the time Jaime returns, his hair still damp, the fish is done, and Podrick begins piling wooden plates for each of them. They crowd around the small table, the area slightly cramped, but none of them complain. Sansa is seated between Sandor and Brienne, and at first it is quiet, all of them focusing on filling their bellies with food while it’s still warm.

At last, Jaime sits back in his chair and takes a sip of a sweet white wine that the Lyseni favored, sighing. “Well, I suppose Hugar wasn’t lying when he claimed it wouldn’t be easy work. Those _kilns_ , gods, I thought I would melt in the rooms with them.”

“Shame you didn’t,” Sandor remarks, and Jaime glares at him, but softens when he sees how Brienne and Sansa try not to laugh.

“Yes, very unfortunate,” Jaime returns dryly. “So, Clegane, I see you’ve calmed down since last night. No more raging about like a pricked bull?”

“Oh, how is it that you’re so very tactless?” Brienne interjects, exasperated. 

“You tend to lose that when you’ve lived in King’s Landing for a few years.”

“Or when you’ve been fucking your sister and the entire realm knows about it,” Sandor volunteers, only to earn a swift slap to his shoulder from Sansa. “What? They do.”

“Well, so much for a nice dinner,” she sighs, though it is half-hearted. Despite the quips and japes, no one seems particularly offended, especially when they are all so very tired. 

When the plates are empty and Podrick has taken them to be washed, Jaime is the first to retire to the bedroom, his shoulders slumped. The others sit making idle talk for some time, with Sandor sipping sparsely at his wine, before at last the conversation dwindles. Sansa shoots him a pointed look before glancing towards Brienne, and the man nods, climbing to his feet and retreating to their own chambers.

“Brienne, Podrick,” Sansa says, and immediately they both look to her. “May we speak in the sitting room?”

“Of course,” Brienne offers.

They all move to take their places in the next room, with Sansa’s legs folded beneath her and Brienne’s sprawled out near the hearth. Podrick leans against the nearest wall, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Is all really well, Sansa?” Brienne asks lowly before Sansa can speak.

“Oh, yes. I confess that we both behaved badly last night; we talked about it this morning.” Here, Sansa pauses, before delicately adding, “Among other things.”

“Other things?”

“Yes. Now that my marriage is annulled, I am a maiden free to marry. And with no family to arrange one for me, I must do so for myself.”

Brienne is already smiling, knowing where this is going, though she politely does not interrupt. Podrick raised his eyebrows, fighting his own smirk. 

“It will not be immediate. We both decided it would be better to wait, for a bit. But when we do…would you two do me the honor of witnessing it?”

“Of course we would,” Brienne says, at the same time Podrick replies, “Yes, m’lady.”

“Thank you. I think that Sandor wished to ask Jaime himself, so for now…”

“We’ll say nothing,” Brienne assures her. Sansa cannot help the bright smile that blooms across her own features now, feeling very much like her heart might pound out of her chest as she rises and goes to join Sandor.


	34. Sandor X

_I've never fallen_   
_from quite this high;_   
_falling into your ocean eyes_

He’s loathe to pull himself from the warm bed that he shares with Sansa the next morning, though he does so carefully, allowing her to continue sleeping. 

She looks so very beautiful when she’s dreaming, a little crease between her eyebrows, her features relaxed, hair spread around her like a fiery halo. For a while he simply sits and watches her, until he has to quietly dress and duck from the room.

He enters the little office that Podrick has converted and shakes the lad awake to help him don his armor, though he feels just a _bit_ bad for waking the boy. Still, Podrick does not complain, and after Sandor dines on leftover vegetables from the night before, he goes out to the stables to saddle Stranger.

Lys is already awake and bustling as he rides through the city, the people clearing a path for the massive destrier and armed man. Even he has to admit that the place is leagues better than King’s Landing could ever dream to be, smelling of various perfumes and spices instead of shite and unwashed bodies. Several times his eye is caught by little baubles that he thinks Sansa might like. Perhaps another time, he will return and buy some. And he thinks that he should ask Brienne what types of cloth she will need to sew her cloak for their wedding day…

 _Their wedding day._ The words bounce around in his skull, making his stomach do some sort of odd somersault. To think that Sansa bloody Stark, the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on, wants to be his _wife_ …

In another time, when he’d been the snarling Hound, he would have thought it was an impossible jape. But he’s seen the sincerity in her eyes when she claims that she loves him, and he can’t argue with it. Not anymore.

He’s consumed by his thoughts, but still, it’s not difficult to find the manse that belongs to Ormollen. It’s the biggest, gaudiest, most ridiculous fucking establishment on the edge of the city, and it makes Sandor snort. There are high gates surrounding it that allow not a single glimpse inside, and the gates are guarded, though the men on duty permit him to enter when he gives them the name he’d provided Ormollen with – Dallin Jast, supposedly one of Antario Jast’s sons from the Westerlands. 

The courtyard within is just as lavish as Sandor expected, a sprawling expanse of land with a cobblestone path down the middle leading to a massive fountain, shaded by large trees. There is a huge garden to the left, the stables to the right, and more statues than he cares to count.

The guard shows him to the stables, where Sandor waves off the lads there in favor of settling Stranger in himself. When he’s finished, the guard leads him up the path towards the two main doors that lead inside the ivory palace, and once he steps inside, Sandor feels like a bumbling bear in a room full of glass.

It doesn’t take long for Ormollen himself to come sweeping down the grand staircase that takes up a portion of the room, a grin plastered on his face. He is lightly tanned with a sweep of white-blonde hair, and vivid lilac eyes set above a straight nose. “Dallin! You have come.”

“Just ‘Jast’ will do,” Sandor grunts, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 

“Yes, yes, of course. Come, shall I give you a tour?”

 _I’d rather fucking not,_ Sandor thinks, but he nods all the same, and he trails Ormollen upstairs as the man begins to lead him down long hallways, gesturing to rooms as he goes.

“Here is the first library, and there across is the second. There are many precious books and scrolls in there; you’ll need to look in, from time to time. Here is the parlor where I take drinks with guests, and there is the game room, where all of my most prized relics from hunts reside. Oh, and that there is where you will find priceless artifacts from across the world, though it remains locked, of course. And here…”

On and on he blathers as Sandor follows him down hall after hall, trying not to sneer at the thick rugs beneath their feet, row-after-row of portraits on the walls, and even more bloody statues than he’d seen in the courtyard.

“On the third floor,” Ormollen says, leading him up again, “are two wings. The left wing houses the chambers that belong to me, my wife, and our children. The right wing houses my concubines. You will not see much of my children, as they study often and keep to themselves. Nor my wife. More than likely, you will encounter my chief concubine more often. Lynesse.”

Lynesse. The name screams through Sandor, though he keeps his face impassive. Oh, he knows of her. During Robert’s reign, she was married to Jorah Mormont, and rumored to be such a pampered cunt that Mormont had driven himself into financial ruin trying to please her. It was this, they said, that had driven him to slaving, and when he’d been caught by Eddard Stark and promised execution, he’d fled across the seas with Lynesse. _Seems as if she’s found herself a man who’s wealthy enough to suite her tastes,_ he thinks sourly. He did not see much of Lynesse, if ever at all; she and Mormont did not come to court. He’d been a part of Tywin Lannister's host when Mormont had fled, and so he did not think that rumors of him would have ever reached her. He had not been the fearsome Hound, then – though he’d been burned and bitter, with word of him just beginning to spread. 

Still, he hopes that he will not see her. It’s a slim possibility that she will even know whom he is, and she certainly will know absolutely nothing of Sansa Stark. But should she see Jaime in the city, well…

Not that she’d be likely to do anything about it; she was labeled a traitor, too, after fleeing with Mormont. And she’d so clearly made a grand life for herself here. 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Sandor focuses again on Ormollen, who is _still bloody talking_.

“…will be on guard duty on the gates the first three days of the weeks, and you will guard the insides the other two. Sometimes, once I have grown to trust you, I may send you to guard my family and courtesans should they wish to visit the city. You’ll be paid very generously, of course, for your services. Is this agreeable?”

“Aye.”

“Excellent!” Ormollen pauses and clasps his hands, peering up at Sandor’s face. Rather than repulsed, he seems intrigued; Sandor always knows that’s worse. “You told me you were Westerosi, though that was obvious by your coloring and accent, but you did not tell me how you came about those scars.”

“No, I didn’t.” There’s a pregnant pause where Ormollen waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. 

“Yes, well, then I suppose you might as well start now. Come, I’ll introduce you to my dearest and most trusted sellsword, Valar. He’ll shadow you, for a time.”

Sandor didn’t need some egotistical fool following in his footsteps, but he supposed it could not be helped, when he was expected to watch over a place so grand. Ormollen would have been a fool to take in sellswords and blindly trust them, after all. 

\---

Valar is a stocky middle-aged man with silvery-gray streaked with the last remaining strands of black cropped short, and eyes the color of ravens wings. He claims to be Lorathi, and Sandor can see it – he has a similar facial structure and accent to the whore handmaiden Sansa had kept company with for a while.

He gives Sandor a swift once-over, and thankfully does not comment on his scars. Instead he simply says, “You’re Jast. I’m Valar; I’ve worked for Master Ormollen for six years now. He’s a good employer to have; you’re lucky that he took to you. Not much terribly exciting happens around here. Mostly you’ll keep an eye on the grounds, make sure no riff-raff try anything. And keep an eye on the concubines, too – though never touch them, obviously, and never speak with them unless they speak to you first.”

As if he’d want to touch one of the whores when he had a lovely little bird waiting back at the flat for him. “Seems simple.”

“It is. Come, I’ll show you the guard tower where you’ll spend most of your time initially. Then I’ll take you on a route around the gates. When you have your first day scheduled inside, I'll give you a tour of that, too - though decidedly less grand than the one Lord Ormollen has already given you.” 

Sandor nods, following the man towards the guarded ladder that leaders to the tower. As he climbs, he thinks of Sansa – how perhaps he’ll be able to surprise her with a pretty gown for their wedding with his wages, though the very thought of it still amazes him. He knows she wants to work and contribute, too, though it galls him to think of her alone in some shop in Lys. Perhaps he can provide her with some silks, too, so that she can sew and sell them to market merchants when he’s around to escort her…

The guard tower, when they reach it, is small but cozy. There are open windows on each side, bows and arrows propped against one of the walls, a wooden table with two chairs, and unlit torches on the walls. There are two men seated in the chairs, both of whom lift hands to wave as Valar introduces them as Lazor and Belos, brothers by the looks of it. 

Once that’s done, they descend the ladder again and begin a loop around the sprawling premises, with Valar pointing out all of the little nooks and crannies to occasionally check. He assures Sandor that no one has actually slipped through the gates and proven to be a problem, but Ormollen seems to be a ridiculously thorough and paranoid man regardless. 

“Not much else to show you,” Valar says when they’ve completed their round, running a hand along the stubble that lines his jaw. “You’ll be fitted into the schedule starting tomorrow. Dawn to dusk.” 

“Fair enough.” It seems like it will be a painfully boring routine, to be honest, but it’s better than guarding the bloody Lannister Lioness and her cubs. Sandor mulls over it as he retreats to the stables to ready Stranger, who is snorting irritably at the unfamiliar horses in the stalls around him.

He mounts with ease and guides Stranger patiently out of the gates of the manse, but once he’s clear of the place, he urges the horse into a brisk trot. He’s eager to be back with Sansa, to inform her of his new sellsword profession and the pay that will inevitably come with it. He can only imagine how her face will light up when he mentions his idea regarding selling her sewn wares, the very thought of her smile making his own partially-scarred lips twitch upwards just the slightest bit.


	35. Sansa XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello, I'm back!
> 
> I figured I could at least return with a bit of smut for you guys! I'm very rusty, as I haven't written in a while, but...I'll get back into the swing of things! Just trying to move the story forward :)

_I know who I am when I'm alone_  
_I'm something else when I see you_  
_You don't understand, you should never know_  
_How easy you are to need_

Life in Lys falls into a comfortable routine.

On the days that each of her companions work, Sansa spends her time either tending to the small garden that she’s began to look after in the courtyard or sewing and embroidering. Podrick and Daiyu are always close at hand, offering her both protection and companionship, should she require either. 

When one of the others acquires a day off, they take Sansa to the market, where she sets up a tiny stall to sell what she’s embroidered that week. From scarves and shawls to cloaks and bits of colorful fabric, Sansa has found that the people of Lys enjoy beautiful things, her handiwork included. It is not long before she begins receiving requests, and though she cannot run the stall every day for safety’s sake, her fleeting availability only seems to add to the people’s desire to purchase her wares. 

They do not live lavishly, but they live comfortably, with food on the table each night and good quality clothing on their backs. Sandor is more relaxed than Sansa has ever seen him, though he sometimes returns from his occupation sour-faced and complaining about the grandiose of Ormollen. She always listens patiently and sympathizes, though secretly she wonders about the palace and the concubines who live within.

She does not have to wonder long. One sunny morning she is seated at the stall in the market, watching an older woman who is glancing over her shawls, when suddenly the crowd of people parts and a small group of five approaches. Behind her, Jaime straightens on the stool he is lounging upon, emerald gaze sharpening.

There are two armed men who hang back from the three women that linger at the stall, each of them lovely – though one in particular catches Sansa’s eye. She is tall and willowy, with hair so blonde it is almost white cascading down to her narrow waist. Her eyes are a vivid violet, and she is clothed in a draping sky blue gown that leaves little to the imagination. When she lifts one hand to run her fingers across the embroidery upon a scarf, a tower of fine gold bangles clatters down her arm. 

“This is lovely,” she says in a high, clear voice, her eyes moving to Sansa, who bows her head gratefully. The woman can’t be much older than she, her face not yet having lost it’s youthful fullness. “You stitched all of this yourself?”

“Yes, my lady,” Sansa replies politely, and the woman smiles. 

“And that scarf you’re wearing – you embroidered it, too?”

“I did.” Sansa can’t help but reach up to run a single finger along the edge of the scarf that holds her auburn tresses away from her face. She’d stitched little birds onto the deep blue fabric, some of them taking flight, others perched serenely. It was Sandor’s favorite. “I’ve been sewing since I was a young girl; I’ve always enjoyed it very much.”

“You have a good eye for it. Neat lines. It must take quite some time. You are not from Essos, if I have not misplaced your accent.”

Sansa feels Jaime shift behind her, and a moment later he’s standing at her side, smiling toothily at the woman. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I could not help noticing your slippers. Fine indeed, but a bit plain. You need something that compliments your gown, don’t you think? Perhaps these?”

He gestures to a row of beaded shoes, and if the woman notices that he is attempting to distract her, she does not show it. Behind her, the two ladies in her company titter under their breaths as they eye Jaime with open curiosity and admiration. Sansa does not miss the wink he aims in their direction.

“I _could_ use a new pair of slippers for the ball,” the willowy woman mutters, drawing Sansa’s attention again. “Soon the palace will be crawling with flashy nobility, and Tregar quite enjoys when we dress finely…”

“The palace?” Sansa pipes up before she can stop herself, drawing the woman’s gaze again. 

“Oh, yes. Tregar’s quite fond of his dances and gatherings, though they do get a bit exhausting.”

Tregar Ormollen; she’d heard Sandor curse his name enough to know whom the woman referred to. “Are you a…?”

“Concubine?” The woman’s full lips twitch into a smile. “Yes. My name is Elaera.” She paused to gesture to the women behind her, both whom looked nearly identical – twins, Sansa thinks. “Vhaesa and Vhaelys are concubines, as well, though we prefer the term _wives_. You’re a foreigner but quite familiar with the ways of the palace, it seems.”

“My husband works for yours,” Sansa offers, her heart giving a funny little jolt at the words. They’d decided that it was easiest to continue the husband-and-wife ruse here in Lys, but to say it still makes her stomach twist into giddy knots. “His name is Jast.”

“Jast…” Elaera trails off with a frown, glancing towards the shorter of her guards. 

“Big burned brute,” the man offers gruffly, and Elaera’s eyes light with recognition, even as Sansa’s eyes narrow at the description of Sandor.

“Oh, yes! Very quiet man, so stoic and serious.” There’s a gleam in Elaera’s gaze as it sweeps across Sansa. “I’m surprised to hear that you are husband and wife. What an odd pairing indeed.”

Sansa nods dumbly, and though she knows she should offer something in response, she can think of nothing. To see three of the concubines she’d wondered about standing before her stall, pouring over her wares and speaking of her supposed marriage to Sandor, comes as a bit of a shock. They are just as lovely as they are rumored to be, too; Sansa finds herself oddly self-conscious of her sweat dampened brow and tied-back tresses. 

“How much for these?” Elaera holds up a pair of blush-colored slippers dotted with dusky beads and sewn on crescents, seeming to have moved on from the topic of Sandor. When Sansa names a price, Elaera offers it without hesitation, and Vhaesa and Vhaelys both purchase several scarves and cloaks. 

“What are your names?” Elaera asks after she has tucked her slippers into a bag that one of the guards holds, her gaze flitting from Sansa to Jaime and back again. 

“This is Sofina, and I am Aren, my lady,” Jaime offers politely if not somewhat coolly, though his tone has not dissuaded Vhaesa, who continues to bat her lashes at the lion. 

“A pleasure to meet you. I am sure that we will cross paths again, Sofina. I don’t think I could possibly stay away from such lovely work now that I’ve come across it.” She pauses and tilts her head, strands of pale hair falling over her slender shoulders. “Perhaps I could arrange for you to attend the ball with your husband. Tregar clearly trusts him if he is still employed, and it would be good for business for you to display your work to the nobleman’s wives that will be in attendance.”

Sansa knows that it is impossible, though the idea of attending a dance dressed in finery with Sandor makes her heart long for just that. But he would never allow it; not with so much at risk. Still she nods and offers a soft, “That would be lovely. Thank you, Elaera.”

When the group has at last departed, Jaime heaves a long sigh, running his hand through his hair. “Well that was certainly something. Perhaps it’s best if we pack up, eh?”

She agrees, and together they gather the remainder of the items left within the stall before making their way back home. They stop along the way to buy dinner, cloths full of dried fruit and oxtails braised in red wine, the tantalizing scent of it making Sansa’s stomach rumble the entire journey back.

When they arrive, Brienne and Sandor have just returned, Brienne’s hair still damp from her bath, which has not entirely removed the scent of brine from the docks. They settle around the table together, with Daiyu dozing happily beneath Sansa’s chair as they dig into their meal.

“Sell anything today?” Sandor asks between bites of oxtail, his steely gaze making Sansa’s cheeks warm when it settles upon her. She cannot help the gentle smile that spreads across her lips as she nods, though Jaime is the first to pipe up.

“She sold a considerable amount to a group of concubines, actually. Nosey bunch.”

Sandor stiffens at that, his eyes narrowing to slits. “How nosey?”

“They asked our names and commented on us being foreigners,” Sansa offers, picking at a dried fig. 

“And Sansa informed them that her _husband_ worked at the palace. They said that you were so very serious; have you ever considered smiling?” Jaime is not intimidated in the least by the withering glare that Sandor sends in his direction. “One of them even invited little Sansa to an upcoming ball.”

“Fat chance of that,” Sandor growls, frowning. “Which concubines?”

“Vhaesa and Vhaelys,” Sansa says, and when there is no recognition on his face she offers, “twins.”

“Seen them around, I think.”

“And Elaera.”

Sandor snorts, making Sansa raise her brows curiously. “That one’s always flouncing after Ormollen, fluttering her lashes at him to get his attention – though it’s the finery he showers her with that she wants. Airheaded chit, if you ask me.”

“Such a way with words,” Brienne murmurs around her fork, making Jaime smirk. 

“I wish I’d been there to see them,” Podrick says wistfully, and Sansa thinks that if Sandor rolls his eyes any harder, they might pop from his skull.

“Best stay clear of them,” he says after a moment, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. “The concubines are harmless, but better to be cautious.”

They disperse not long after that, with Sansa and Sandor retiring to their quarters. As Sansa sits before her mirror to comb the tangles from her hair, she watches Sandor pace in the reflection behind her, his expression cloudy and troubled.

“Don’t like Elaera sniffing after you,” he admits after a while, making Sansa turn towards him. She can see the worry written plainly across his face, and she rises to move towards him, stilling his pacing as she presses him back with the palm of her hand until he’s seated on the edge of the bed. Kneeling, she begins to unlace his boots, smiling at the breath he releases. “Idiot girl only wants friends, I’d wager, but I’ll be damned if some high-class whore muddles up what we’ve worked so hard for.” 

“I will be careful, Sandor,” she tells him softly, running her hands up his legs, pausing to massage his calves. “Ser Jaime was with me the entire time, anyways. He would never let anything happen. Now relax; you mustn’t stress so much.”

He mutters something that sounds like _impossible_ under his breath, but Sansa ignores it in favor of continuing to massage her way up his legs until she’s reached his thighs. Sandor has gone silent, and she glances up to see him watching her through half-lidded eyes, something in his gaze making her skin heat.

“What are you doing, Little Bird?”

“You’re always so tense, and you work so very hard. I wanted…to help you relax.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off before he can.

“Do you remember, in the inn…when you said that one day you would let me pleasure you, as you did for me?”

He stills, though she can see that he’s breathing hard. “Sansa…you don’t have to – “

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

She doesn’t know what she’s doing – even when Petyr had made her please him, she’d only ever rubbed him through his trousers. This is different; there’s nervousness and desire mingling within her, and her hands tremble faintly as her fingers tug at the laces of Sandor’s breeches, loosening them just enough to begin to slide them down.

One of his large hands covers hers, stilling them, and she looks up into his eyes. There’s matching desire flickering there, but hesitation as well.

“I…have never done this before,” Sansa whispers, though she knows he’s aware of that. “I need you to tell me what’s right and what’s wrong.” 

Slowly, he releases a sigh at the same time that he releases her wrists, and she continues to tug at his pants until they’re partially down his thighs. Only his smallclothes are left, and she can see through the thin cloth that he’s hard. It’s not the first time she’s seen his naked length, but she still can’t help her sharp inhale when she pulls his undergarments down to release him. 

She never would have thought during her lessons with her strict Septa that a man’s member would fill her with such heat and longing, but as she lifts her hand to wrap her fingers around Sandor and feels him shudder beneath her, she cannot deny the wetness pooling between her thighs or the way the blood roars in her ears. He’s so large that she almost can’t close her fingers entirely around him, but she manages, giving him a few clumsy strokes. His groan is low and deep, urging her to dip her head and swipe at the swollen tip tentatively with her tongue.

She’s only ever heard about acts such as these from giggling girls like Randa, and she’d scrunched her nose at the idea of it before. But now she wishes she’d paid closer attention, for beyond a few light licks, she has no clue what to do.

Sandor seems to sense her uncertainty, for he murmurs, “Your lips – use them gently.”

She bows her head further and opens her mouth, her lips wrapping around the tip of him, her tongue flicking against the soft skin. She assumes from his muted curse that she’s doing something right, and so she continues this until he mutters for her to move her head just so. It’s a slow bobbing motion that feels strange at first, but she grows bolder and more comfortable with it until she starts to slide more of him into her mouth.

She nearly gags then, and his hand reaches out to still her, his fingers gently working their way into her hair. “Easy. Take your time.” His voice is almost strained, and when she continues at a more careful pace, he tilts his head back and sighs. “Good. Move your hand – ah, fuck, like that. With your mouth.”

She gets some sort of primal jolt of satisfaction and pride from the noises he makes; knowing that she’s pleasing him makes her smile around him as she continues to work her tongue and hand, settling into a rhythm that makes his hips twitch. 

Experimentally, she gives a twirling swipe of her tongue along his length, and his head falls back to reveal his throat, his free hand fisting in the sheets beneath him.

“Sansa,” he chokes out, and she can feel his muscles tensing, as if he is attempting to hold back from something. She remembers the rush of pleasure she felt when he brought her to completion with her mouth, and she wants nothing more than to give him that same feeling, so she gives another swipe, and then another, until his hips are trembling beneath her. Still she does not stop, almost eager now in her movements, and Sandor gives a long moan as he abruptly tugs her away from him, just in time for him to spill himself over his thighs and stomach.

She sits back on her haunches, and reflects on how she must look – hair mused from his grip, lips swollen, breathing hard. Before she might have worried that she looked and behaved like a harlot, but with Sandor…she cannot possibly bring herself to muster shame. 

When his breathing has slowed slightly, he wipes himself clean with his shirt and then discards it, tucking himself back into his breeches and then reaching to pull Sansa onto his lap. She curls up happily, wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling her face into the crook of his shoulder as he plants a kiss to the crown of her skull.

“I hope that it wasn’t too terrible,” she mumbles, and his entire body shakes as he laughs.

“Terrible? Fucking hells, Sansa, you have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of that. It felt…surreal.”

She gives a giddy little giggle, unabashedly proud of herself as she pulls away to stare up into his gaze, glad to see that the stress has been replaced by satisfaction. 

“Would you like me to…?” He trails off, and she shakes her head. 

“Not tonight. I’d just like you to hold me.”

And so he does. The two of them strip down to their smallclothes and extinguish the candles before falling into the bed together, curling under the blankets. She marvels at how well her tiny frame fits against his larger one, making her feel safe, whole. 

Sansa never expected that she would end up living happily in Lys with Sandor in her bed and her strange group of friends in the other rooms – but oh, she wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
